I’m a poem
of refrigerated pear slices
and you’re a cheeseburger wrapped in foil.
The Bartlett slivers frost as they’ve been taught
and the cheese that was your name hardens.
We should get married.
The pear is rarely an enemy, but I know snobs
who camembert and prosciutto around town,
eaten by plaid-shirted, roll-sleeved men in parking lots.
While you, my cheeseburger, wake with the alarm, and at some point
are told how deadly, how hurtful you are, how you are poor.
I will open the dusking door for you
and we will make disgusting sandwiches
all night long.