A poem about futuristic food.
Like buzzards in a blizzard
the drones flit about in the fog-swept sky
They ferry little parcels of TVP pig flesh from BBQ joints
Tiny cartons of stir-fried lab-grown chicken muscle
Frozen pounds of guiltless vegan hamburger
All across the sky of South Bay in the chill of winter
Food is everywhere in the air
But packed so perfectly that the gulls don’t have a care
I sit on my stoop and watch driverless cars glide by
Not a whiff of fossil fuel to be had
My iPhone XX vibrates to let me know
that my order is locked on and inbound
A pint of rice noodles, edamame and meatless balls comes humming through the fog
and lands right next to me and my little meatless robo-dog.