Non-Biodegradable Bonuses

The pizza was lukewarm and the grease

soaked through the cardboard

into the white clamshell graves.

They call it a 'thank you'

but it feels like a bill.

I gather the packing peanuts

that cling to my polyester slacks

with a static that won't let go,

little white ghosts of a shipping error.

A cup drags across the laminate.

The sound is a needle

threading through my left temple.

It will take a million years

for this lunch to disappear,

which is longer than I’ll be remembered

for answering the phones on a Sunday.