Secrets of the Hospital Food Tray

A miniature bowl of orange sauce (?)
topped with plastic, what a mystery
among the ordinary pepper stamp
the packet of salt and the squeezable
toy of mayonnaise. It is the color of a rose
in my garden, the orange one called Lucille Ball
Like neighbors in a campground, squeezed together
politely, green chunks of grapes and honeydew
sit next to a brown bowl of white clam chowder.
For some reason the chef has added
a pitiful white plate, a strip of green leaf and red
circle of dried and pale tomato, its tiny seeds
dull. The whole gray tray is dominated by a bowl
and lid, a huge plastic cranberry on a field of white
Within is the unspeakable, the relics of a saint perhaps,
thousand year old bones and parchment flesh
holding the spectacle together for the viewing
of the public. Never mind what's in there. No one
cares. A cup of coffee survives, the same cranberry red
as the entree, and beside it black plastic utensils
and two packets of sugar. Of all the tray
I remove only the coffee and tear open one sugar.
On it is printed, from someone.com
"Your heart knows what your mind
only thinks it knows." I know everything
I need to know about this supper,
and my heart tells me it will not be my last.