There’s a sadness in heart-shaped waffles,
in the cool flickering logs, in the tower
of Styrofoam tended to by a brown person.
There’s petroleum in the apparel, haircuts and politics of the others.
There’s blunt force trauma in the space-age gravy,
in the Fruit Loops from a wheel, in the envelope
of eggs, in the TV news on mute.
If it weren’t for all the banners scrolling across the screen
you’d think they were reciting poems—
serious, desperate, crucial