The burrito that's killing my brain cells
My burrito, so carelessly wrapped in foil. First it’s a shiny silver gift. Then an ice cream cone. Soon a spicy hot forty in a soft silver bottle. Walk with a weave, as rice and peppers and little bits of chicken fall to the ground. At least the ones that don’t get stuck in my beard. I’m saving the scraps and ruining my breath. I burrow deeper into the cylinder of faux-Mexican meal on the move. Savagely biting at what’s already dead. The weave of my walk is but a drunken burrito stupor. The last unpleasant scraps are slurped as chewing has become too much like thinking and both I eschew. I wad up the wrapping, the cone, the bottle, the foil, the trash. It’s a tiny misshapen ball, remnants of a meal squished between a malleable metal. Crumpled and useless it lands in a barrel as I stumble on toward home. The motion sensor lights announce my arrival as I make my way straight for the car. Climbing, I lie face up on the roof. For what better use of an auto than as a metal mattress with a perfect view of the sky and telephone wires. This is not where I usually take my respite, but then I’ve never been bombed on a burrito.