Here I am sitting cross legged
And normal conversation from Cook Pond.
Wolfing down the better portion
Of amortized entrées.
That I would leave any speck
Of enzyme vilifies me among peers.
Like I care about their tongue depressed judgment
Or the drivel they sling around their circle.
While they talk, I rise and pace—
Guarding the morsels they secretly covet,
Showcasing my steel-belted muscle
In rippling waves of grain.