Paper Plate Stains

The plate still damp,

a thin, weak shield.

My gut's a cramp,

a battlefield.

Tomato bright,

bean dip a smear,

potato white,

all cloying here.

I dropped the fork,

said 'delicious, dear,'

but the forced smirk

felt like a fear.

This sticky weight,

a sweet and sour blend.

I seal my fate,

and pretend.