Nina D. Smith

by Nina D. Smith

O, three-sided chip
Of pressed corn meal.
Where did you go?
You abandoned my plate
With an unforgiving grace.

Neither the dark sludgy pitch
Of unspecified bean matter,
Nor the stretched elastic strings
Of a vague cheese product,
Could contain you.

I didn’t notice how you fled,
My awareness of my surroundings
Dulled by a generic pale ale
Or a margarita—premixed
With bottom-shelf tequila.

I could have had a pretzel
With the most yellow of mustards.
I could have have sticks of mozzarella
Breaded and deep fried,
with the ruddiest, runniest of marinaras.

But I chose you.
My dear tortilla.

Did you run because I refused
To part with the extra three dollars
For the side of guacamole?

© 2024 Nina D. Smith