Beyond Grasp

Now frantic with a fork, ordinarily reliable, I ponder Kafka’s beetle in fanciful frustration on his back, legs kicking as he wobbles in half spins unsuccessful getting right-side up, as I stab, stab, scoop, and stab again, then—with European savvy, if I may say—with knife collaborating, I still lose half on first ascent, the rest just inches from my mouth, and ever more mindful of Plan C: to eat it like a hound—but others are around, and I’m not Gregor, so in silence do I wail: I want my veggies, they’re here, to my avail, all that I may eat and—save these canned sliced beets, olives, and green beans marinated, with spinach, cuke, and onion less than fresh—the lettuce should be nourishing, with vital fiber for free function (iceberg though it be, the water-logged variety) available to me just three days of the week—some chef or buyer reconciling scaled economy a while ago decided not to cut these heads in wedges quarter, eight, or sixteen, nor as taco shreds in width one quarter to one eighth so the slots between the prongs afford a greater take—and chose instead to cut in shreds no more no less three quarter—thus rendered for the slots too wide and for the prongs too narrow.