Leftover on a Plate

nostalgia posing as a venerated position masquerading for musicals playing

on repeat for festive scars

still held hard in hippocampus mutilated by gallons upon gallons of

hard liquor sounding just as the first date rotates in cryogenic stasis,

all limbs and no thumb,

if you catch the drift,

though if I did, then perhaps I wouldn’t be in the awkward state

of deciding which frozen dinner tastes better with pinot grigio,

as if that mattered,

since I’ll still eat whatever with whatever drink I have,

but it’s still nice to pretend I have taste

in the middle of my life,

though who’s to say when I’ll die,

perhaps tomorrow,

perhaps never,

but I’ll still have leftover memories