Thought For Food

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Status: Finished  |  Genre: Other  |  House: Booksie Classic
Questing for a stomach all too empty

Submitted: January 30, 2008

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Submitted: January 30, 2008

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I haven't been home since Friday, but once I arrive I depart again; following my growling stomach I swam through overgrown ditch bristles and combed the bowing field grass, short, golden strands like European arm hair. Stumbling over unseen rocks hidden under the mass of dry grass, I can hardly keep balanced but still trek on through, spreading curtains of sharp leaves slicing at sleeved forearms. The secret is in short strokes, careful footing and a practiced eye; without I'd be swallowed whole, spit out in to another dimension where food is soap or hunger is only imagined.

The journey isn't long as it is treacherous; the ocean of brush gives way to massive rock formations leading to paved roads. I would have to climb down to climb up and instead I skim around, breaking through branches that catch locks of my hair and poke at my clothing. A dam of dead branches crunch under foot, my hopes of their stability strengthen with each step forward. A slip breaks a foundation log, I jump to the hard ground goal and watch the dirt and dead wood sink, an inward sigh of human interference. I check for stray twigs in my hair and pluck them out, brush off the dirt on my pants then continue, my path now clear ahead.

Barbed wire, an obstacle of sorts, savagely twists in to a fence waist-high and rusted. Do I climb over? Risk a thigh-jab and tetanus shot? Of course not, I simply walk the length of the fence until I spot a gap large enough to fit through. I do so cautiously, making sure my bag and I don't catch a spike.

Invincible, the wind on my face whispers my prize and my eyes can see it clear in the distance; a cheap meal to service my gut and pocketbook wisely. The red-roofed establishment buzzes with minivans and SUVs, electric menu, drive-thru kitchen. They'll all ride in feasted excitement, scarfing burgers, their crumb-chins singing to top ten radio sunday favorite. Slipped grips on greased steering wheel, chubby fingers licked clean of any morsel now fumbling plastic toys soon to be found forgotten under car seats.
It's so easy! The mess is contained, no pots or pans, no table-babble.

I'll eat in the comfort of the restful booth seat, taking bite breaks for water sipped from a flimsy straw. Chicken burger, my hero, my stomach once gurgled for you and now you've emerged and pleased me so, filled me with the energy I had lost in the conquest for your bald bread head.

How do you contain so much delight?
You're a scheme. You dollar-monger.
But it's okay,

I'll forgive you.


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