His head bends, eyebrows annex, as he grasps 
a creamy yellow banana in his palm,
examines it for a long moment as if seeking flaws     
in a diamond.
 
He’s very good at finding faults.
 
Each slow-motion-peel and every black spot disappears 
into a thin plastic bag atop the table.
He chews and chews and chews with an even mechanical motion
like a metronome.
This thorough mastication will shape his bowels this day, this life.
 
My chew is a careening train with IBS.
 
Next, he twirls the ends of the bag into a rope, ties it, leaves it there, 
wipes his hands on a paper towel, and reaches 
for the Los Angeles Times and a pen. 
 
            I make a smoothie and slurp it in less than 10 minutes.
 
He’s still chewing the last bit when he launches Thursday’s sudoku 
with a scratch of his nose, a hand to his temple, and a stare 
into the air as if remembering something celestial.
 
I tried a sudoku once. After two minutes I yelled Yikes and ran.  
 
He repeats the nose scratching, hand on temple and stare into the air
for about two hours, as he consumes strawberries, orange slices, 
a peeled apple, a bowl of precisely chopped onions and cucumbers, 
and a 6-minute boiled egg mixed with pea protein powder.
 
While he’s chewing I qigong, clean the kitchen, write a poem.         
 
He peers at his marks on the paper and almost smiles a hmm. 
 
I will be the one to toss the bag in the trash.
                        

I gnaw continuously on the gristle
of tying the bind to an engineer,
graze on the jelly donuts 
and red hots
 
of raising a daughter,
ruminate on the 21 flavors
of my career 
as a swirled librarian,
 
and choose the noodles, 
apples and honey of poetry
to see me through
the afterlife.