What I’m Supposed to Like

Sometimes I like what I’m supposed to like –
say, fresh-picked produce – fancy food: arugula
(that funky meaty plant which tastes a little

rude) entranced me for a couple weeks –
and strawberries have lately so seduced me
that my hands are now the color of a spanked

behind – you may next find me chawing on organic
orange rind or re-discovering the trance
of jasmine-scented rice: or otherwise indulging

in the savor and the texture and the spice
of the consumable experience of life: but, now,
in this strange unremitting gray – this gentle humid

play of early summer cloudy day, and day, and day:
today I undergo an unsuspected sway towards,
perhaps, well, not exactly what I’m not supposed

to like, but rather that odd realm of indecipherable
light which hasn’t anything to do with what
I taste or smell or chew: it doesn’t follow what

I swallow, swallow what I follow: doesn’t care
a whit. To wit: I sit here in its indistinctness
and each notion of a plan – say, man the subway,

see old Frank Lloyd Wright up in the Guggenheim,
climb up to the swirling top, give it a scan –
won’t pan. Manhattan’s camera prefers to span

indifferently across an emptiness: report
the uninvolving news, none of it to do with food
or art or view. So that’s what I choose, too.

.