A New Waste

 
There’s nothing and everything traditional
about myself. And even though you bring me
rare and exotic offerings to this table of myself,
of a retentive spirit with suspicions, I sniff
at your lack of knowledge of such cuisine.
I turn to race to the high country for fresh air
and a barn-sour mode of transportation
before my city insides knot. Yet in my flight
I feel the pull as my primitive hunger gets the
better of my expired wanderlust despite your
patrician ignorance. This naked nature’s girl
sick with drink in the wilderness. You know
the lay of the land I was born to, anticipating
it with wandering fingers undoing me, and
a moist mouth to a parched clime yielding.
Clearing all that came before, to lay a new
waste, sending invitations. The mortician.



#KimAddonizio

NaPoGloPoWriMo 2019