30:30 2014, Day 20

Survivor

The dread I feel faced with the last slice
of extra pepperoni needs a name. Not guilt
that stays the fingers from sniping
the Private Ryan danish as it turns
to four pm crystal on the breakroom table.
Closer to fear, not of the thing, but of a strength
that guards finds the taker wanting. Buttercream
holy of holies enrobed in the milk chocolate ark,
third frilly tabernacle in the center row
of the See's sampler. Call it an American
shame, to make a thing the last and give it
a story. Someone will come whose want
overpowers his sympathy. The final slider
sweats in the corner of its box and waits.