The older I get, the more like red onions:
I'd eat them as apples, if I still had the teeth.
There's something beneath ourselves
that in losing taste, picks at smells,
and tries to make of simple pleasures
for what they are. When I drove I car
I always drove fast, or balanced on the clutch
between the urge to stall, and the biting of second,
lies the sweet point; everything else is speed.
That soft mush. like a death row meal,
less grueling to chew than the walk.