by Rob Littler
You know you eventually are
What you ate, while what’s eating
You is time, catchin up…Oh,
But the grease and salt and how
It feels to taste them makes you
Ok with making you who you are now.
It isn’t as if there is any fault—
The same gluttony makes you drive an SUV
On the freeway, blasting your beloved NPR
Stories about what really happened in Benghazi—
Forgetting the passing saguaro, sage, rock and tree…
You avoid GMOs like the plague, only
You dabble at the idea of growing your own
And getting to own what you grow, but we both know
You will buy the cheap crap, bagged fertilized soil,
So you are doomed because you could not care
Less about following through with substance, or even know how
To feel accomplished at accomplishment—
Ignorance is bliss as long as someone remains, head out of sand.
Posted on 11/18/2014
Copyright © 2019 Rob Littler
|Member Comments on this Poem|
|Posted by Kristina Woodhill on 11/26/14 at 11:57 PM|
Clever first three lines. "or even know how
To feel accomplished at accomplishment—" the crux of this for me. My grandmother knew how to use every part of an animal, most of them home raised. That has been lost for most and it does take determination to get back to our roots when so much is so close and easy to hand.
|Posted by Laura Doom on 12/30/14 at 12:02 AM|
Where the outside world necessitates missing the big picture at the expense of a self-portrait, I guess...how to make the unsavoury virtually palatable, though not for consumption.
|Posted by Paul Lastovica on 01/16/15 at 12:13 AM|
The world - past, present & future - was, is & forever will be full of such trappings. One day we'll live fully Virtual Lives, or return to living completely & utterly off the land; and maybe that land will be alien... who knows such things??