Inside me, at war,
are a crazed Romantic poet
and a Buddhist monk.

The monk looks on serenely
as the Baron scours the fridge,
frothing at the mouth of disloyalty to the Sybarites
and a white flag to life
disguised as piety and wisdom.

The monk, moved despite himself,
sneers and asks if this
is what I really want to call love.

Meanwhile I’ve got to go about my day,
like a pirate particle, sailing wild
down the esophagus.

It’s all the old joke all over again:
is nothing really better
than being hungry, and rich
enough to have the pantries ready to go?