Adult Meal

I sketched it out in third grade,

a skyscraper, a rocket ship,

a dog named Comet, and a chef's hat.

I'd eat gourmet, control the world.

Tonight, the wrench slipped. Again.

Water on the floor.

Dinner, charcoal.

And these cold beans, right from the can,

on the floor, next to a gas bill.

The toilet drips,

a slow,

insistent

clock.

This isn't a chef's hat.

It's just a dirty shirt.