The Tinkerer Pauses
The Tinkerer Pauses Mid-way through the work he thinks how life’s a bag of chips and when you open it mostly air. How the nothing he finds there only feeds his craving for the deeper-in where the crunch is kept, and past that where he suspects the crumbles bunch in the corner, flavor-thick with salt. How even there, the elemental stuff stuck to his fingers, he still licks the world over like an ape for a flea. What is it he wants? A cold Sprite, maybe, or just a gulp of air so full the thin bag of his lungs would surely burst him free.