As it comes out
of the oven, the cooks
describe the potential
for their new dish.
Indeed, I was
initially hopeful
for what this offered.

After several bites—
seven, then seventeen,
and eventually eighteen—
I wonder why
I received this dish;
I didn’t think
I was empty
enough for this.

The polarizing
flavors confuse me.
Soon I’m bored,
then annoyed
at my boredom.
Why
does this anger me,
sadden me?

Maybe it would do better
alongside others—
no, that wouldn’t work
it would ruin them too,
if it could ever pair
with anything in the first place.

Guessing how few
bites are left
would be more
exciting—
and eventually
disappointing—
than continuing
to eat.

I don’t feel
I should continue.
I was already full,
already had enough;
what’s the purpose
of a dish that
cannot satisfy?

The end result
for this dish
is the same,
whether finished
or disposed of.
So, I don’t see the harm
in quickly ridding
the kitchen of the dregs.

As to not cause a mess
I carefully tie
a bag around it, then
it’s quickly discarded.

As my day
comes to its end,
I think about
the dish once more,
and I’m prepared
to rest.