Jonnie Acrid
by Charles Levenstein

Jonnie Acrid starts his day
in a usual way. He's barred
from salt, measures calories,
surreptitiously jiggles his belly
to check the progress of a new
diet regime, no discernible effect
although an already sour
disposition is getting worse.

He throws out the heavy cream;
sat in the refrigerator so long
it wouldn't pour down the drain.
No bagels left, so he toasts
German pumpernickel that tastes
like cardboard. Maybe he'll have a pickle
for the strength he'll need
to circumnavigate the reservoir
on a cold and shiny morning.

Suppose I live forever, he thinks,
without the taste of chocolate,
the delight of opening a pie,
melting vanilla ice cream on a cobbler,
suppose I never look a potato
in the face again.

He pulls on ragged sweat pants,
fuzzy socks and costly sneakers,
dons polar fleece over an old peace t-shirt,
decides to wear the woolen watch cap
that makes him look like a thug,
or a fat old slug with delusions.

Jonnie trudges along the muddy path,
he's passed by sturdy youth of the rugby team,
golden girls of track zip by,
only an ancient Vietnamese pushes his
stolen supermarket cart more slowly
than he who pursues immortality.

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