Cold Plate, Warm Regret

The gravy congealed, a waxy pool

at the plate's cracked edge.

I poked it once — no steam, no heat —

the grease clung like old excuses.

Fork paused in the air,

the candle flickered, casting long shadows

that trembled like my appetite.

A bite, wet, soggy, pointless,

stuck heavy as the week’s stress

that I tried to swallow down.

No rescue came in salty broth,

just the taste of promise wasted,

frayed like the napkin’s tear.