A McPoem, Plain

Laid on top, to make a play of ease, poor art,
the bread and sometimes butter.  The first thought

laid open when the cover is lifted (never cut it),
is how the meat still drips and still is steaming,
broiled and broken, still is breathing,
still dreams of freedom and the sun on grass,
like a poem can never last.

Ends with a bite, that lingers, holds,
Ending fast, still growing cold.

But sometimes a burger is a god damned
mess, a humble event loudly announcing
itself to be falling apart.  Catch it, catch
everything that tries to run away
the momentum keeps you close though
melting in your hands and tickling down
your arms is noticed then ignored

until the last bite brings you back
to the desolation and blasted poetry of a full stomach.