Dave Bonta's short poem is built on a pointed contrast. A group of people, "high and strange," enjoy a strange feast of things that aren't really food: "white light," "road provisions," a "new version of coffee." The sugars are "perplexed," as if even the pleasures are confused about what they are. Everything sounds a little dizzy, gleaming and unreal.
Then the last two lines shift the picture. The "gold edge of the ice" is beautiful, but it is also a precarious place, and "others suffer" there. The title, "Eating the rich," hints at a double meaning. It suggests rich food, and it also echoes the angry slogan about the wealthy. Judging by the imagery, the speaker seems aware of the gap between those who indulge and those who pay for it, and the "we" includes them. The mood is glittering but uneasy, a pleasant high with guilt just beneath it.