How We Call One City Home And Do Not Recognize Another

Breakfast, served at home
with streamed news, steamed
milk, screened comments;
or

breakfast, served in a diner
by the same woman every morning,
the owner’s sister; hot black and brown homefries,
eggs just this side of runny, bacon, coffee — cream only.

Lunch at a desk.  Something frozen
warmed in a microwave.  Taken late, 
taken quickly, taken light;
or

lunch from a box, thick sandwich,
pretzel sticks, hummus,
biryani rice,
empanadas.   

Dinner, served
raw, served slowly
to bored foodies, served ironically,
or 

dinner, hot and
foil-wrapped, eaten
between jobs, between tasks,
between errands.

Home is where our bellies are filled.
That city next door that doesn’t smell
much like a kitchen at all? Who could live
in such a place?