Hungry

A small thing winked at me,
plump, vibrant, not exactly square,
moist, ready to exude,
not wood, not steel, not glass,
I'm not sure if I smelled it, but I might have
(I'm sure I smelled you island girl
when I met you in line for the retreat),
and it touched my belly
(I mean right through the goddamned AIR)
and I salivated,
and I thought something vague
like dreams of little cheesecakes
or petit-fours being served
in the swirl of a big party,
or a piece of cheese,
cheese can look like that,
and this had a wet red stripe across the top too,
and camambert can be covered with berries
and these thoughts pulled me somehow,
but not enough, for I was in my kitchen
where food is plentiful unless you're really super hungry
which I wasn't, I had time to wait for your sandwich,
when I am really hungry, then I throw cans around
looking for tuna like I was a shark,
but I was OK.

I remembered it the next day, actually,
as I was walking in front of the bushes
by the hospital at noon,
and I thought of salad,
and I bent down
and almost rifled through them
to see if they were too stemmy,
too waxy, too bitter, or sweet,
tender and nourishing.
I would know what to do
because I am an animal,
caring for its owner.