It is always the way
You get to the front of the BBQ
And they’ve ran out of hog.
I feel them moving behind me
Edging around me to the altar of meat;
To the cooling carcass and pick
At the leftovers, the greasy pink
Scraps fed into each other’s gullets
A woman with an empty glass of
Red, squeals and laughs and
Drops her cup.
There is a buzzing in my ear.
I’ve lost all
My appetite
