Contemplating my dinner plate—
bacon, ginger, potatoes, shrimp,
with salt and pepper scattered thin.
with salt and pepper scattered thin.
Time keeps ticking, for nothing.
It’s getting cold,
grease clings to little cute plastic-ceramic curves.
Yet who cares if it looks fine,
when no one sees?
Blaming the oxygen it takes,
the spaces it occupies.
Who cares when no one
ever expected someone—
someone who could knock it off,
call it back to the table,
pull it from the line
where it’s always the one
left behind with nothing?
Time’s ticking, rising again.
Contemplating my dinner plate,
and whatever comes next.
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