An Inconvenient Meal

I’m sorry to be 

an inconvenience 

The dishes you make 

of slaughtered animals 

fail to whet my appetite 

I awkwardly nibble 

the raw strips of carrots and celery, 

the only accommodation 

you offer my ethics, 

while broken bodies 

repeatedly enter 

your greasy lips 

You pass me strange glances, 

stunned that I could 

somehow decline 

to stuff my face 

with the roasted victims 

of your meal 

I’m sorry you see me 

as an inconvenience, 

but I’m more sorry 

you don’t see them at all 

I’m sorry you savor the taste 

more than my comfort, 

more than their lives 

7 Dec 2019