Eating McDonald's

I want to write a poem that admitsit had to put its pants on to write this.It had to get sober to say this. It hadto eat a Big Mac next to the nightingaleswinging over a sea to contemplatehow a human spirit awakens in a womb.It reluctantly cleaned the kitchenand brushed its teeth three timesbefore opening its mouth. This poemis dressed, functioning in its friendships,its profession, its yoga practice. Thispoem is ashamed and still wants more.I want an art that doesn't binge. Or cycleblame through the dead to find hunger.I want to drive to McDonald's gently,already pleased, remember to use theapp and my points. When we were kids,my parents took this poem to McDonald'swhen they were tired, or maybe proud.We went home and put our own cheesein the burgers and felt this poem separatelyin our tight, temporary rooms.