6/30

A wrap

Ask not for whom the Taco Bell tolls.

Roll your eyes if you  must:

I know what is on my tray; it is something more

to me. Except for perverts of course, none of us

remember what mother's milk tastes like.

This is the certainty that feeds me 

now. Beans, cheese, flesh, a tincture 

of familiar spices, the illusion

of variety swaddled in a thick

bleached blanket. I will take it

every time. It will be the last thing

I can afford. At these prices I know it is killing me, 

and dying, I am fulfilling someone's prophecy.

But if I leave you behind, don't look for meaning

on the Value Menu, nor shroud me in Fire Sauce

and fake Spanish. I was ordered to go.

I have run for the Border.