Solomangarephobia: Fear of Eating Alone

 
To hold a Dorito is a venture toward the unpredictable.
The Dorito is neither this nor that, neither arrow
nor pyramid, neither scapula nor spandrel,
neither balalaika nor mythic dragon’s breath,
neither inside my mouth nor outside,
neither revolution nor bowling pin formation,
neither a main course nor a discourse.

For what is sapient in this case
is to know a fiction, an angle, a cloak, a cheese –
the tick at which night touches day,
in lingering orange and little bits of gold.

Aristotle said brutes swallow; humans savor.
Whether I take or partake of the speckled disorder,
tornado in a bag, lost in its delta and sediment,
from the moment I open my mouth
I have already promised; or rather, and sooner,
the promise has seized the I which promises
to eat the Dorito.