In the quiet hum of the evening,
after the movie credits rolled,
a small, unexpected hunger arrived,
demanding its own unsalted grace.
?
A pink tongue, a momentary flash,
meticulous, considering the angles
of the exploded corn.
There is no crunch—
just a slight, soft snick of acceptance.
?They are masters of the tiny task,
consuming the discarded shell
of our vast, loud entertainment.
They are wholly present here,
where we have already left—
watching the static fade,
polishing off the crumbs
of our forgotten joy.
