Saturated

I’m not ready for the mail. The envelopes are probably

shouting my name in that quiet, white-room way.

So I’m in the parking lot, the burger is lukewarm,

and the bag on my knee is turning into a ghost.

The heat from the fries—they were too salty, actually—

has made a window in the paper. A slick, dark stain.

It looks like a map of a country I was kicked out of,

shimmering under the streetlamp’s orange hum.

I’m just sitting here, watching the oil spread,

waiting for the courage to go home and be a person.