Garnish
When I find something like a pine sprig
jutting out of my entrée, as if it were meant
to take root in my pork chop,
I usually pick it out and save it,
which is why there is a pine sprig
hanging from the rearview mirror.
Passengers see it swinging into sharp turns
and maybe they shape an admirable image
of me, a sentimental naturalist,
collecting mementos from the Appalachian brush,
the musky smell meant to unearth
some wild, pioneering phantasm.
No. I just found this pine sprig in my pork chop,
which I thought was ridiculous, and I wiped off
the grease and bits of mashed potato,
tied some floss around the forked base,
and strung it from my rearview mirror, where,
as we drive among these miles of living needles,
I see it swings into every sharp turn
with a pendulous ache.
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