ghost kitchen

there are not enough hands. sometimes
also not enough teeth. you tell me
about a restaurant that opens 
only in the depths of your night shift.
all kinds of bones. people are renting out
their tongues on air bnb. people are
opening their trunks & offering the dead
a little place to lay down but only
for the cost of a firework. the kitchen is 
hot. sweat & phantomness. the ghosts
are tired as all ghosts are. are we all
ghosts now? i have found myself
delivering food to a stranger. the glow
of their porch. their apartment like
an obelisk on the moon's back. street parking
in a snowstorm. our mirrors, like heels.
you said you ate your heart our there.
bought everything the ghost kitchen had
to offer, worried that one evening it would
be gone for good. breading. fire. 
knees like dinner plates. i sleep in 
someone's crawl space. it is cheaper than
my parents' house. less ants. more bulls. 
you tell me to wake up with you in 
the sweet dark. to open the app circus
& speak to the ghosts. i never do. you are
disappointed. a body can only bear 
so many hauntings. a halo of grease where
ghost flesh becomes yours. a hot pan cools
on someone's stovetop. they drink a tall 
glass of tap water. each of us return
to our ghost duties. you, the night shift.
me, daybreak.