The Indian takeout intended for lunch is missing from the fridge.

The son, reclining satiated on the sofa with fingers stained red,
says he didn’t eat it. He owes his satisfaction to Doritos.
Tell him that you know that it was him even if you’re not sure.
Lingering disgrace builds character.

The youngest daughter, lips the color of paan, storms by smelling of spices and states that
Though she didn’t eat it, she wishes she had
because you are a horrible mother
and deserve every calamity that befalls you.
Trip her for her insolence.

The eldest daughter, washing an oily bowl, is a known nibbler.
Her recent conversion to veganism means your chicken vindaloo should have been safe, but she’s a backslider by nature.
Smell her breath. Suspiciously minty.

The husband is chewing something quietly in the corner.
He would admit taking it if he had because he’s brazen and reckless.
Simply roll your eyes at this formidable opponent.
Let him know that if it was him, Hell itself will open her mouth to rain fire on his head.

Make a beautiful turkey sandwich instead.
Make sure that it’s envy inducing.
Use the last of the spicy salsalito turkey (everyone’s favorite), but withhold one slice from your masterpiece.
Place the meat on sweet Hawaiian bread.
Blanket it in provolone, artistically arrange the avocado, make money green lettuce and tangy garden tomato slices rain on that thing, and smear the aioli like you’re Michelangelo painting the Sistine Chapel ceiling.
And as you saunter outside to eat on the porch
Passing the drooling ingrates that you call family,
share a piece of the meat with the dog, the only friend
you have in this den of thieves.