Chelsea neighborhood of Manhattan rocked by explosion - Poem: Snack Food Fit for the Dumpster

 Just got home from Scott's where we watched - or slept thru - two  classic films.

Some Like it Hot


Zowie, is that girl built!

and

the silent film classic with Buster Keaton

The General.

 


NY Times Alert.

Saturday, September 17, 2016 10:29 PM EDT

A powerful explosion rocked the Chelsea neighborhood of Manhattan on Saturday night, injuring 25 people, shattering windows and forcing the closure of several blocks, the authorities said.

None of the injuries were believed to be life-threatening, the Fire Department said on Twitter.

 ***


After a year and a half, Poets Haven rejected this poem.  You'll love it!

SNACK FOOD FIT FOR THE DUMPSTER

Can 100 million Americans be wrong?
Hark to your favorite junk food.
Trying to fit in, I walked into the
warm Wawa, flooded with lights
on a 12-degree night
and strode to the popcorn aisle
The Indiana Popcorn cheats the
buyer with its inedible tiny kernels
so yo-ho-ho I would try
“Pirate’s Booty” Aged White Cheddar
a photo of desire printed on the
crinkly small package.

Concentration was impossible
as I drove home, waiting wanting
salivating to try a delicious new
snack. Just as kiwi and mangoes and
curvaceous papaya were once
new to these shores, so I would
embark on this delightful taste test

But let me interrupt, Dear Reader,
for my disappointment was exquisite.
Not that I had lost a chance to be
the next Nobel Laureate or Lottery Winner
Far worse!

I had been tricked!
Tricked, not so much as by
the Pirate’s Booty, but by my own
selfish longings to bite into something
as satisfying as crème brule or
baked apple pie, for what I chewed
on was like a flavored, salted,
Styrofoam peanut, the insulation
protecting our packages.

But what will protect my intestines,
my duodenum, my liver and
tumbling red blood cells from
the atrocity 100 million people
call food?

Did I spit it out?
Did I empty the bag in the trash?
Did I shake my head in disgust?
With my fingers, this woman with
insulin-dependent diabetes
dug on the bottom of the bag
to nibble on every last fake
salty
fluff.