He coughed as he wiped his mouth without a napkin.
Table manners? Here?
For the two guests count Famine,
who reached for fake jelly and buttered fake bread
but didn’t bother asking “Pestilence, how is your head?”,
who ravaged and slobbered and chewed up fake salmon,
then jammed up fake bread without spreading fake jam in.
Pestilence huffed and he wheezed as a fly came their way,
then tucked the bug gently down under his tray.
“Disgusting,” said Famine, desire to eat.
“More like fitting,” said Pestilence, tapping his feet.
When fake scones and fake butter absorbed into their guts,
fake sugar flowed through their veins like oil-slicked ruts.
Not a single sigh of contentment was uttered,
just the echo of coughing that Pestilence sputtered.
How odd was it that these two were dining for tea?
How interesting neither a bite-devotee?
How bitter was it that these two couldn’t see
that the sweet of fake fare meant they still couldn’t bleed?