This is not a paper clip
It’s a plate
With white rice, ensheathed with oil
Catching
A reflection of light, but nothing
Else
Compacted grains
I take a forkful then
Push
The
Grains
Back
To
Maintain
The shape
This time I don’t watch my hands
Because this is not a paper clip
It’s a 4 fingered metal extension of my hand.
It has a pattern
It’s made in
And it doesn’t have scars laced with memories
Its pretty dumb this whole utensil thing, except right now it’s saving me from having to wash my hands.
A cafeteria means:
Someone cooks and someone cleans
And that someone is not me
I just have to stand behind the counter load my tray and pay
Find a table
On any other day I would have probably ranted about our alienation from our food, today, I’m just fucking happy that I don’t have to do jackshit
2 comments:
angustia in the cafeteria: you.
hard-water-controlling-fision in the supermarket: me.
horror en el hipermercado: alaska y los pegamoides.
~t~
Supermarkets: oh my, there's nothing that i hate more, than rows and rows of consumer goods.. no one understands the anxiety i feel at supermarkets. Nice piece btw
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