hamburger

there's an Andy Warhol piece
where he just eats a Big Mac.
he looks past the camera;
a bottle of ketchup & 
the white burger king
bag sit on the table. i watch
it over & over again. i become
aware of the crinkling 
of the wax paper as he unwraps
the sandwich, of the quiet
clink of the ketchup bottle lid.
it's old noise,
held in a thirty-year-old video,
a fraction of the sound that's
been gone for decades.
i sit down & pretend to eat
along with him.
i don't eat hamburgers
so i pantomime. i want
to keep him company even 
if it's only a moving image.
Andy's been dead for just
as a long as his sounds 
but here he is, his mouth 
moving, his fingers touching
the food. i wonder what 
it is that makes someone
really dead & whether or
not Andy is really dead.
i crawl into the video & ask
him questions while he eats
what does it taste like?
can i have a bite?
i lean in closer but he doesn't
notice, eyes fixed forward
towards the camera.
the video ends & everything
goes black so i start it 
over again from the beginning.
he unwraps again. 
i go to a burger king alone.
i don't eat hamburger 
but i want to get food
for Andy. i pick up several 
dozen bags of hamburgers.
i stack them in the passenger
seat & bring them home
where the video  has been
playing on loop for days.
passing him burger after burger,
Andy eat more each time.
i feed him & he thanks me 
for breaking the cycle.
as he chews he cries
asking am i dead
am i dead
am i dead?