Yield

The radiator is having an argument

with the pipes in the wall.

I’m standing over the stainless steel,

watching the crumbs fall where they won't

require a vacuum.

The tortilla is cold and the ham

is sweating under the yellow bulb.

It is a meal of pure surrender,

the kind of food you eat when

the 'sorry we missed you' slip

on the door is the only mail you've had

in a week of staring at the phone.

I haven't used my voice

since Friday morning,

and the ham tastes like

nothing at all.