A cold coke.

Midnight, dim lights, deep hunger— 
browse apps like foul traps set for bad mice,
I’d kill for some real food, slice of cake perhaps
(or an account aeons from arrears),

If I was a rich man, seems so apt—
a cheese-stuck, thick-stacked burger’d
ignite a fervour— a well-deserved order;
still a starving artist (if you could call me that):

a cold coke would make me happy.