Unremarkable Product

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The Pink Frosts

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My hand travels, quickly now
With a pace informed by a craving, a desire
There's salt on my hand
It was transferred there when I placed a chip in my mouth
The salt on my hand is an afterthought
It is post script

As my hand flies toward my gaping maw
I internally reflect on the thought that these flecks of salt
Are incredibly well travelled
From the bag of chips, to me hand
To me mouth, or, near me mouth at least
To me hand which slumped by my side
And then all the way back up to me mouth again
What a marvel
What marvelously well travelled flecks of salt
From the chip from the bag from the store in fact
And that's without taking production
And distribution in to consideration
I pause for a moment
My silver tongue
My unsheathed velvet noise maker
Wraps itself around me fingies
Enveloping them with tender love and care
And as I pause, admiring the indescribable taste that is fleck of salt
I reflect on how well travelled this bag of chips is
Produced lord knows where
Perhaps in the Orient, Europe, or the US of A who's to say

This unremarkable product
From all the way across the globe
To a store located conveniently quite close to me
This well travelled, cultured, parcel of pickings
That cares not for I, nor I for it
Beyond a fleeting enjoyment
So different and yet forever now intertwined
Has seen more of the world than I
I consume anything I want
Because I happen to be a grown adult
I'm not privy to your judgements
Nor do I care for them
Because I just ate this whole entire bag of chips
And I can do it again
I can devour, and gobble
This bag of chips
Has more miles under its belt
Than you've had hot dinners, sunshine
I'm the consumer
Who knows what the f*ck went in to this product

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