Label Side Down

The chicken came on a white oval platter,

arranged like somebody cared.

She'd peeled most of the label off—

most. The rest was still there.

Price, timestamp, the store's address.

I saw it when the host raised the dish.

Nobody said anything. I didn't

say anything. Which

is what we were all doing—

talking about the commute, the weather,

whatever parking had been like.

Holding the room together.

I drove home in the usual dark.

Somewhere, the platter was being washed.

The sticker still on the bottom,

face-down in the suds.