I Gambled on Chocolate and Humiliation Happened
Private pleasure, public shame
It’s meant to be savored,
licked all around its edges
at a leisurely, sensuous pace
such that all four sides —
the short and the long —
are tongue smoothed
even with the chocolate “bread,”
or maybe
just a little
beyond that point.
A gentle squeeze
exudes more luscious
vanilla middle
for the eager, ecstatic,
elastic tongue.
And doesn’t the tongue,
confined to cheeky walls
day and night deserve
a tasty little
excursion
now and then?
So, yes, an ice cream sandwich
is meant to be savored,
cherished, appreciated
by taking one’s time…
A private pleasure —
even in a crowded lunchroom
smelling of Chile con Carne —
the canned kind, spilled milk
and the insufferable cacophony
of temporarily unleashed children —
the emphasis on “temporary”
due to the fact that
only 30 minutes is allowed
for the consumption of lunch.
A bell rings. Children line up
along the stucco walls
in the order of their grades…
One…two…as licking begins in earnest.
When third grade lines up and
off they march…biting and
chewing along the wall
as the bell rings again. Big cold chunks
swallowed but barely tasted —
not the experience purchased
with this week’s extra pennies.
A finger points.
A finger points at the gobbling
and then at the shiny silver
garbage can some 50 paces away.
No one moves. 100, 200,
300 pairs of eyes watch
as head bowed, moving slowly,
slowly to the cadence
of generations of admonishments —
“one never, never, ever
throws food away as long as
someone somewhere starves.”
This replete with vivid images
of the Holocaust victims
and bloated Biafran babies,
memories so rudely violated —
moving ever so slowly,
yet eating in earnest
in a defiant act of solidarity
on behalf of all the hungry ones,
past! present! future!
Face beet red, hot,
despite throat frozen
with the taste of vanilla
and utter humiliation.