Two trillion black holes in the process
of devouring their galaxies, with planets
uncounted and who knows how much life
but I am waiting for my order of

a Chicago-style hot dog and that draws
my focus in from the tragedy of the cosmos
all the way down to this sleeve of sandwich,
a small simple thing I can comprehend,

not inscrutable like how the dust of stars
becomes a tomato, a pickle, a hand to hold
the sandwich. If the cook chooses to explain
celestial mechanics as he fishes a couple of

sport peppers out of a jar that's fine; I will
lose my attention anyway, for my stomach is
growling like those stars and civilizations
as they disappear. I am ignorant in so many ways,

but I do know enough to recognize hunger is
destiny when I look up at the night sky.