Lunch with my doctor

My plate is more full than you know,
at my table there is no one,
to clink their glass against mine,
to meet my eyes and taste what I’ve prepared,
what is their to feast upon,
will it be there tomorrow?
Will it be plump with juices,
rich with aromas steaming my fork,
the savory, the bitter, the sweet
peaking, unearthing sensations
from a mouth which restrains words,
watering with curiosity,
readying my palate,
why is it you are too busy to dine with me,
should I even bother to eat
when it feels that nothing is fuel?