Cafeteria
2024For on certain days,
when your heart beats
with an unusual cadence
and your hands, wrists, forearms
tremble so that the prongs
make for a futile spoon-attempt to eat spring medley—
You look deep into the eyes of someone that
has reflexively eaten their salad across the hall
brimming with an unabashed and
automated satisfaction,
as if they have reached the
nominal end of some nominal journey
For which you blame perhaps a sharper fork or
the rapidity of consumption
As for me, I don’t think such stasis has generously
given me the time or the laminated certificate
For on certain nights,
I wake up to the pounding
of masses of roaches within
looking for a dollar or a place to stay,
yet all my things remain in my room
to offer me some continuity
I have this spoon in some drawer somewhere,
second-hand hemoglobic scent
I think of all the mouths it has seen,
the hands exchanged over years,
and the calcified remnants of an apple tart
And if you can’t finish the salad,
can you hold onto your seat?