Food Fight to the Death

I will not lay down my sword
until you are either dead
or eating beans and franks
at the rest stop just before
you reach the gates of Hell
where all the mayonnaise you crave
is on the other side of the 
slime crusted bars.

You will not lower your gun
until I am waist deep
in new rules that stop me
from launching paper airplanes
from my desk
or I that I am fatally wounded
staring up the cottage cheese on the office ceiling
recounting my life
and recollecting my first and worst job
in snap clarity,
stacks of dishes and
ugly , dirty pots and pans
getting taller by the minute,
closing time never coming.

We are islands of appetites
that led us to respective shores
of buffets and exotic candy wrappers
who argue over the Internet
and phone calls
about who it was
that threw the first biscuit,
who precisely
spritzed the first stream ketchup stream
from the convenient squeeze bottle.

We forgive each other's sins
at least twice a year
but our shirts,
marred by the edibles
of each other,
remind us that things done with food cannot be absolved,

and both of us are aware
that laundry does not lie.