Mannerly Victory

As a dieter I must say I was none too keen
on the lip-smacking, tongue-clucking sounds of eating,
those manner-voided, teeth-gritting audio atrocities produced
by enforcers of rude, the din of dinners schemed by open-mouthed
troglodytes who wore food as well as, if not better than,
they who consumed it.

It was a symphony of saliva sass, a morphing of molar clack and
fat-lipped slurp wherein silence widened her eyes in a profound
shiver of shock.  She left in a pique--I don’t blame her.  The
munch, the gulp, the recurring resonation of tramp and
drool unbefitting of human beings with a dram of dignity. 
Table manners ala the caves of Neanderthals and
howler monkeys.  Gormandize gone mad, this
audition of feed mixed with uncouth sound,
wherein we who resisted grub suffered.

This suffering was bad enough due to aromas which enticed,
lured and titillated.  Add to that, though, those masticating
smacks, those snaps of whip-like tongues from incisors
to the roof of mouth, and then the dieting discomfort
climbed a ladder and dangled, holding on with one
arm.  Thus I swallowed, apologetically, to taste
buds, and I gulped in unfeigned sorrow for the
journeyman of acid-reflux, for the simple
reflex of Adam’s Apple.

Belly up to the buffet all ye who plundered
civil conduct, all those who munched and gnawed
and crunched to the staccato of hobo drums.  Chomped
with zest and, with open maws, spooned those man-made
indiscretions of burger tones and snippets of syllables dipped
in grease and gristle onto the tables of humanity.
We did our best to survive it; we built our 
constitutions forthright.  And then, one
day, manners prevailed.  There was
nothing left, but silence alone.


34 Lines
Writer’s Cramp
9-23-16