It sits there on the counter

It sits there on the counter,

a dark, wet sun on the brown paper.

Chinese food again. Ten dollars

for too much salt, too much lonely.

The translucent circle, a slick cartography

of bad decisions. Maybe pork lo mein.

Maybe fried rice. The smell clings

to my fingers, a sweet, cloying oil.

It’s still warm, a ghost of heat

from the bottom of the container,

some fried chicken wing that broke

through the cheap lining.

Tomorrow, it’ll be stiff, a permanent

scar on the kitchen counter's laminate,

a relic of some hunger I can't name

that always ends up looking like shame.