the poem written eating
pizza leftovers is always different
than the one scribbled
next to French onion soup
some stained lines the red ones
seem messier more passionate
tomato stains with a daring boldness
brown consume leaves a less risky tint
one excitable enough
to wake me during my nap
while the quieter one lays
silent near the folded napkin
being careful not to wander
too close to the newspaper
get caught in a one-handed sweep
and tossed into the trash