Pistachios

Pistachios? Those
I once ate in great
amounts but only ever the
type with shells, and never
the ones with red paint all over.
I’d look at a bag of them and say,
there’s work to be done.  I’d fill a bowl
and have at it, dumping the shells
right back into the same bowl
so toward the end it became a chore
to find the last one left unopened.
There may have been
some masochism involved.
There may have been
some ersatz hunter-gatherer
behavior there — a rationalization
that the work excused the gluttony.
I haven’t had one in a while now;
I don’t know if I could go back to that.
Not that they were bad for me or anything
beyond the modicum of salt and the quantity
and the time I’d put into it
when I should have been — oh, it’s not like
I had anywhere to be or anything to do
back then.  I just sat on the couch
cracking open those shells.  Breaking
my nails on the edges that wouldn’t give
so easily.  Telling myself there was virtue
all around me in that sad dirty living room.
That one day, I would write about this
from a better living room and it would all be
worth it. Boy, was I wrong.

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About Tony Brown

A poet with a history in slam, lots of publications; my personal poetry and a little bit of daily life and opinions. Read the page called "About..." for the details. View all posts by Tony Brown

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