Meal Me
A collection of eaters
sharp glints on dull knives.
Silver forking service
dunking bread permanently cancelled.
I do not like
a hot-mike talking dinner.
I do not like the tinkle and clatter
of plates and dentures.
I want to eat a hoagie in a dark closet.
Slurp my gravy on a lapping tongue.
Gustation and gab
the flap of white lining and napkins
no, I do not like it.
Spoon my soup
through a letterbox,
let me finger my food
in a gut gulping gestation
far from the marinara
the red stained drip of dipping neckties.
Give me a take away,
give me gobble space
some bones to stew upon,
but most importantly –
long before the crème brulee
let me eat
ALONE.
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