A server strides to your table.
They whisper:
“Here’s your meal, sire,”
and then they retreat like they never approached you.

Your meal is covered
with a tin lid;
the metal is thin
and it’s caving in at the slightest breeze.

It’s melting gold.
and liquid salt tears.
and it’s screaming
screaming
screaming.

But to you:
c’est dead;
and so:

You carry on.

Tuck the napkin into your collar.

Pat yourself down.

And eat.