Self-Portrait as a Combination Taco Bell / Pizza Hut / KFC

the unholy trinity of suburban late-night salvation
barring seemingly endless options of worship 

bean burrito breadsticks and mashed potatoes
or a soft taco pan pizza and a buttered biscuit 

an unimaginable combination of food flavors
for people not ready to go home to their parents 

and yet none of the options feel quite right
so maybe I should call it Self-Portrait as idling 

in a drive-thru with your friends crammed
across the sunken bench seats avoiding 

the glow of the check engine light with black tape
pressed with a precision unseen anywhere else 

in their lives as a fractured voice says don’t worry
take your time and order whenever you’re ready 

from behind a menu backlit like the window
inside of a confessional booth as the hands 

of the driver open up like a collection basket
for the wadded-up bills and loose change 

that slowly stack up as the years go by
and I’m not sure what I’m supposed to be 

in this analogy but I know about masking
warning signs and hearing out of tune 

voices scream WE’RE THE KIDS WHO FEEL
LIKE DEAD ENDS so instead I’ll call it Self- 

Portrait as From Under the Cork Tree
or maybe even Self-Portrait as whatever 

album people listen to when they love
their friends and still want to feel connected 

to the grass walls of a teenage wasteland
that they can’t help but run away from