There is something agoraphobic
about empty plates,
like deserted parking lots
while silverware taps
with the heels of a serial killer.
Such asphalt sea sickens for hunger.
Therapists urge confrontation
with open space through displacement --
steamed carrots and blanched string beans
instead of potatoes baked in duck fat,
even the projection
of green salad on table to disguise
the absence of creamy dressings.
A slab of grilled meat on a plate
is more alarming without gravy
and twisted towers of fries.
Surgeons bad-joke about extracting
stomach parts to prevent this retching of fear,
but the claustrophobic thin has no way
of knowing pleasures like sexing
with high calorie or the cluttered satiation
of buffets, bent as they are on faking orgasm
with a shoreless view of dietscape.