Monotony on a Paper Plate

The cardboard boxes are gaining on me,

stacked in the blue bin like a history of lack.

Seven nights of thin cheese and pepperoni

and the kitchen tiles watching me go back.

I scrape the black crust into the sink.

It’s easier than deciding on a knife and fork.

The air in here has started to shrink

under the weight of this repetitive work.

It’s not hunger anymore, just a rhythm,

a way to fill the hour before the bed.

I take the cardboard and I live within them,

sleeping on a stomach full of heavy, salty bread.