bruised

take a bite
i bark.

forcing the girls
to eat. my thoughts
with a male lion-
the distant dad who eats his young,
napping beneath the hot sun
unconcerned with the well-being of his spawn.

does he insist
that the kids take a bite?
finish their lunch?
clean the carcass clean?

my eyes roam--
drowsy with the pleasant bordeom
of the hour. the day, the summer
-- to the bookshelf.

so many highlighted passages
promises to some future poem.

take a bite
i bark.

i'll write this poem
after lunch,
i tell myself. 
I look for the right book to poach
my eyes land on Sartre.

he is intellectually inflating enough
to make the poem sound important:
the age of reason:
read and dusted
highlighted and stacked on the shelf.
a trophy of forgotten thoughts.
unlike photographs
books remind us little of the time we spend
with them. 

i prepare a snack for myself
too lazy to commit to a real meal.
a halved avocado will make a decent stanza
i choose a green plate
hoping for a colorful
photograph:
a pixel to add to the ongoing art project
i call my life.

the fruit is browned and bruised
but, i take the photo anyway
some people go for the authentic depictions
of life.

"Sunday writers: those petty bourgeois who wrote
a short story or five or six poems every year 
to inject a little idealism in their lives."

the highlights from Sartre
are browned and bruised
too.

like a mirror relfecting
every blemish.