The Poetry of Mark Daniel Milbocker 
Crust and Rind

Even the veteran prisoner pans his porridge
to garner nuggets of congealed tallow to
burn away the moonglow that reveals his cage
rather to savor one's stone soup than
curry the guards for a favor and
leave the odd pea to stew with pepper
a limestone lick salts the unbreaded
so fly away on borrowed fortitude and
grand open your bistro to the confetti of
the fanfare of gourmands unsuspecting
who dash their pommes frites with catsup
and exponderate from their bully pulpits
on the virtue of signalling perfection
while taking wax selfies under Eiffel cutouts
and salivating on menus agape
like some sordid flower of busyness
to be rewarded in gildenfall and laurels
yet you know your inalienable provenance
and the aftertaste of terrible terroirs
the staleness of inauthentic mycologies
that grow between moonlit bars.
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