Side Dish

The microwave is spinning a plastic tray,

smelling like old sponges and steam.

It brings back the restaurant with the yellow light

and the cabbage that arrived in a cracked bowl.

It was grey and limp, swimming

in a pool of lukewarm, salty water.

It tasted like the air in a wet basement,

something pulled from under a floorboard.

I ate it because I had five dollars.

I chewed the stringy, translucent leaves

while the girl across from me

pretended she wasn't watching my throat move.