I pondered aloud one evening
as I sat down to dine.
“Where have they gone?”
I looked down at the lavishly
garnished story
in front of me, brimming
with savory juices and topped
with all the trimmings (my mouth
watered).

Before my pondering,
I had just been about to dig in.
That's how I normally go about
eating a book:

Hot out of the oven, I bypass
the utensils and dive
right in.
I sink my teeth into the prologue
and let them tear the rising plotline
off the bone.

The hidden motives run down my chin
and leave greasy patches on my
white linen tablecloth, not that I care.
I gnaw characters off the cob in
mouthfuls.
I greedily gobble everything the
climax offers,
unapologetically demanding
seconds, thirds.

No pinky out, no napkin on the lap.
I'm covered with flecks of
paragraphs, with words stuck between
my teeth, the thick gravy
of sentences running down my arms.

It's a feast, but there's no time for courses
when I need it all at once.
And when I sit back, fat and contented
and stuffed full of resolutions and
denouements,
I toss the bones to the floor unceremoniously
and occasionally belch my satisfaction.

Now, looking down at this poor book
in front of me, I wonder,
“Where are my manners?”
but then realize I care not
and tuck in

to dine.