I can't swallow the news
anymore,
nor chew,
or bite into its ripe
delicious
gossip.
I won't digest a single
word
of what they say,
or inhale
one scent of its cooked
and seasoned
gruel.
the kitchen is full
of one armed
chefs, all
swinging a different
knife,
stabbing madly with
a fork,
depending on how they
lean,
left or to the right.
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