I’m eating in the car because I’m tired

I’m eating in the car because I’m tired.

The house is too quiet and the lights are too bright.

The bag is on my lap, warming my knees,

while I chew on a burger that’s mostly just grease.

A dark, jagged circle starts to appear

on the bottom of the sack. It’s getting clear.

It’s soaking through the paper, hitting my pants,

a translucent map of my own failed plans.