Treat My Body Like an International House of Pancakes

 
Pretend the pages of my menu are sticky
and you don’t care why,
don’t give one single fuck
about hygiene
because you know what you came for,
and you’re
starving.

Make me feel as good
as on those all-night college nights
imbibing bottomless coffees
and secondhand smoke that smelled
like love,
one plate of hashbrowns split
five ways.

Flip me.
Bite me.
Soak me in syrup.

You, of all people,
should know
what I like.