Post-Coital Pre-Prandial Interstice

Pragmatically one feeds oneself – finds this
or that upon the shelf to spread upon whatever
bread avails: dill pickles would be nice

(their phallic shapes would certainly suffice)
to spice this quick reflex of light, pedestrian,
pale fare – and luckily one sees a jar of them

right there! – felicitously near the hand – whose
grasping motion is remanded by the fiat
of the urge to eat which follows so exactly

the orgasmic feat one once again has found
one’s undergone: if sex is midnight, hunger is
the dawn. But what if one were to resist –

desist from filling up the maw to stay a little
longer in the awe? Ah: that would be against
a law. Emptiness is too intolerable to ignore.



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