And you are like this
Fine china
Gold rimmed edges
The decadent roses
Turned to face away
From you, at dinner
And the clink of the silver
Glinting gleaming 
Mirroring the glutton-
y, as meat slips down 
Your throat
The chamber of my throat
So polished and prepped
Not the grace of dinner
But the cook who burned
Her hands making it 
Only if you allow
Will meat slip down 
My black hole 
And back out 
Until you are full
Sated 
And I must 
Once again 
Do the dishes

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