Stomach

The light is yellow, thin, and late.

I’m staring at an empty plate.

The carton’s hollow, cardboard gray,

with nothing left to give away.

The motor hums against my skin,

a steady sound for what is thin.

My ribs are counting out the beat

of everything I didn't eat.

It isn't just the bread I lack,

or salt I keep in plastic sack.

The cold is pressed against my head.

I'll take my hollow self to bed.