Saturday, May 2, 2020

Pork Rinds

In furtive rhythms of uneasy breezes,
an abandoned shiny bag once filled with
fried pork rinds now flutters, drags in little
seizures down the schisms of a sidewalk.
Shuttered, locked up tight as any vault,
New York’s gestalt has stuttered to a halt.
I’ve bought and liked that snack of crispy
salted pig fat. Now I’m queasy at the thought.
I dream they virally attack: they kill. Not like
New York would care. It wouldn’t. But now
it wouldn’t care because it couldn’t. I sit
for days convinced the city’s not just still.
It’s no longer there.

1 comment:

Bernard Hamel said...

The revenge of the pork rinds! Tired of you living off the fat of the land, without even the decency of disposing its now ravaged loins into the ceremonial burial of an appropriate container; but rather, carelessly tossed in the wind to hover to and fro twitching its unease like a tormented spirit (due to the very heft you took so much pleasure in relieving) acting as the foil for the big apple's bite in search of an expedient snack, hunted down by plastic purchase merely because it possesses the chops - not to mention the abuse regarding its namesake in derogatory terms used for disparaging law enforcement and those indulged in sloth - now moves swiftly, in turn, to disembowel your city! Be afraid, Guy, be very afraid! There will be nigh a soul or temple left!

I love the idea of the reversal of consuming the city - "drags in little seizures" is a wonderful caption in its observation. And I found this a great example of resuscitating an expiring occurrence into a breathing moment - living long after its passing.