Hemingwayesque Eating
I feel like a portly and bearded
Hemingway
in a bulky fisherman's sweater
after a bullfight when
I ingest barbecued pork.
A bona fide man
clutches the ribs
with his creased
and hard-working hands,
sinks his incisors deep
into the roasted flesh,
and with a quick
forty-five degree
snap of his head,
shreds the dead
animal’s brawn
from its bone.
And like the full-bellied lion
who rests in the verdant shade
with gazelle blood
dripping from his lips,
the man leans back in his chair,
rub his enlarged stomach,
while not realizing
that he’s wearing
a moustache of
barbecue sauce.
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