Of Bacon and Letters

I eat my idealism and know
it tastes like squash.
Never yuca, but the yellow mold
force-fed to generations of crew-
cut boys dreaming of chocolate.
A second of flavor sinks
to liquid meal.
Where is the fillet? Who ate
my cheeseburger? How many
calories in these words?

I think I am growing gaunt
high up on this stool.
Others offer sympathy around
pieces of late-night coffee cake.
I eat, and in the morning,
nourished.
Just enough till lunch.