of piled packaged foodstuffs,
lends me a moment for

unpacking before
tumbling from the chair:

a butterfinger, a loaf
of bread, cans and cans

of coke and beans and
spam.
I waited in my car

for rain, calling
a fool from his cave to spill

his spoils onto the oily
pavement. I’ve taken

that path before.
Still I
choose paper, no frills, from

among unnatural
cohorts, the thin white

plastic grips cut too far
through my fingers.

I pack the easyopen pouch,
pushin-pullback box,

insertstraw carton, EZseal
bag and twistoff bottle into

brown dry skin to biodegrade
in someone else’s kitchen.

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