Something Real

I sit alone at a diner booth,

where foam congeals, my thoughts unspool,

the clatter of plates mixed with the truth,

my heart craving something real,

but instead, Styrofoam containers arrive,

every meal wrapped in emptiness,

plastic ghosts that barely survive,

a meal dressed in false finesse.

A crumpled cup, a distant thrill,

as I taste nothing but air,

every bite a ghost, a bitter pill,

what I want is weight, but it’s nowhere.