In the Burger Bus I sit
and enjoy the fried mushrooms,
the 50s aesthetic, the soft calf
leather of the barstools, fashioned
in a cascading teardrop shape,
the waitress talking about
Gypsy Rose on social

The heat presses out from a
polka-dotted vent

We are at the back and the ghosts
are at the front
They pretend to eat aioli
They try not to, but do, talk about
their death—
death by collision, the train rocketing
through them with a flat-gray,
industrial precision

They’re double-fried one says
but they can’t keep this thought together
They stare out the windows,
pretend to look at the gold evening
gown in the storefront of Diva Nation
while once again their bodies
burst into red constellations—
soundless this time, painless as
dull fevers