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.