Ingrained Madness

Ingrained Madness

 

The man was in a rush of some kind,
maybe purposeful by nature.
I watched him eat, devouring his food, the moment,
the scenery.

 

A busy Chinese takeaway
full of people, other than him, not going anywhere.

 

The more I watched, the more it seemed
he consumed with the good, steady pace
of a mid-distance
race.

 

Towards what baffled me.

 

He rounded for home, herding what remained into little Alamos,
that he seemed to simply
inhale until the plate was empty.

 

Finishing, he dropped the chopsticks,
wiped his face, and release the breath

 

Of the saved
in one motion,
then gave the best, smallest goal umpire’s signal to
no-one.

 

Surely, born and bred, as they say, into madness.
Something built around the roar of a crowd,
that doesn’t always have to be noisy.

 

The mud and blood of winter engrained
In even the quietest
of his moments.