My hand hovers inches from my mouth,
becoming impatient with the already masticated food which doesn’t disappear.
The methodical jaw bites up (never down) on the meat,
Over and over and over and over,
But no matter how many times it chews,
The tendons never break cleanly.
That’s when the wrist aches,
Beckons to listen to the sugar of it’s tasteless fruit,
With every bite glorifying the ever lasting prospectus of stimulus,
Before I lose interest.
But swallow too quickly
And the stomach will be upset,
Pieces to big to digest and dissect.
To eat is now an art form of an instinct
An instinct which I have forgotten.