Chinese takeout menu

I’ve figured out the night’s anatomy,
all the muscles and bones
that fill it.
I found the menu
convulsing
In your kitchen drawer.
Every word
was carelessly placed,
a messy testament
to things you can easily buy
even though they will go down
your trachea
violently.
What will you be
having?
Spasms? Ankle sprains? Sour candy?
There’s a dinner coupon
In my cavity-filled mouth.
You could probably buy my heart for 6 dollars
As if it were a skeleton
built from/for your tongue.
An appetizer served cold
In a paper carton.
Are you going to look right through me?
As if I were coasting along empty space
Consisting only of the neon lights
That advertise
Unlocked
restaurants?
Are you going to stay up all night,
Cracking open fortune cookies
To know what lays ahead?
This is all that was in the paper bag:
you sitting next to me,
thinking your life
Could be nausea
And hotel vacancy.
I know what monsters
are keeping you awake.
I know the plastic Tupperware
And the disposable forks
You’ve built into your physiology.
Tip the delivery man. this is going to be a long night for Him.