Ode to the Bit of Onion That Landed on My Shoulder

His dinner was rendered to a hungry mouth
in rough fistfuls,
without interruption.
Without skill or subtlety.
Sauce-drenched bits,
white knuckles,
unblinking desire.

In front of him,
of it,
a large plastic bowl,
unlidded with haste.
To the side, a discarded top
dirty-side down
on a watch cap
and a book.
Beady eyes fixed on the contents,
a gelatinous swirl of I-really-do-not-know-what.

The first lunge catches the observer off guard.
From under the desk,
a flabby hand swings up and plunges
down
into
the
bowl,
into sauce and vegetable,
plucking out a white fleshy morsel.
It was torn, not cut,
formerly living tendrils
that hinted at earlier lusting.
Fingers curl around wet meat,
hand becoming a fist,
fist becoming a missile,
whirling back toward the head.

A second lunge, just as surprising,
and the other hand sweeps above the stained papers 
not moments after the first
arrived above the chin.
Teeth peek through lips,
and a tongue emerges eagerly.
Three fingers and the morsel enter,
then the lips contract.
The meat is gone,
the fingers swabbed,
but not clean.
Moving fast,
blurry and shiny.
Spattering.

It doesn’t stop.

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