Room Service

We’re staying

At a very nice

Hotel

And the room service

Just keeps

Coming

It arrives with a knock

At the door

To our room

But when we open the door

There’s nobody there

Just a cart

With a tray on it

A cloche on top
And when we remove the cloche

There sits

A meal

We bring the plate in

But we leave the cart

And the cloche

Out in the hall

We eat what’s on the plate--

Be it a hamburger

A few pieces of sushi

A bowl of macaroni

A bowl of ice cream

A single piece of flank steak

We had utensils in the room

But once we were done

Eating whatever

Had been left for us

We were to wait

For another knock

Open the door

Find the cart

With a new plate

And a new cloche

And we were to leave the used utensils

On the cart

And when we closed the door again

We would find new utensils

Next to the bed

Freshly polished

With no idea

How they got there

We had to eat every scrap

Every crumb

Every morsel

The plate had to be cleaned

Just an inch shy of licked

And after the first few plates

No matter how hungry we were

We felt full

Stuffed

Nearly nauseous

From gorging ourselves

Knock after knock

But then the satiated feeling

Would flee

And we’d be famished

Starving

We’d smell the odor

Of freshly baked scones

Or a newly grilled kebab

Before we even

Opened the door

And part of us

Wanted to fling the cloche

Across the room

And gobble up

The fresh meal

With the door still open

Soiling the bright white tablecloth

That covered the cart

Nothing is satisfying

And nothing can settle

We’re not allowed

To sleep in the luscious

Hotel room bed

Until we’re done eating

But we’re never done eating

The second the last bit of tuna

Or chicken salad

Or beef bit

Is scraped from the plate

There goes the knock

And we’re back at it again

The gorgeous bathtub

Goes unused

The large television
Stays turned off

We’re not permitted

To pick up the phone

And ask someone

Anyone

To stop sending us

The food

We have no control

And the only thing

That stops us from questioning

If this is some kind of punishment

Is the way the food tastes

Perfectly cooked

Expertly seasoned

Carefully constructed

So that each meal

Is the best we’ve ever eaten

Until we take in the next one

And the one after that

Our hair grows out

Our fingernails lengthen

Our skin begins to wrinkle

But we never gain

A pound

Not a single

Pound