Lunch (Poem)

 (Note: This poem is simply about sitting down and eating lunch at a crowded foot court in a mall.)

Lunch

The decibel level is

extremely high.

Nothing coherent.

Just a loud murmur

of voices

melding together.

Everywhere

colors and gizmos,

jingles and slogans.

Only 99 cents,

Anything else

with your order.

Dozens of choices,

lining up like

an old fashioned

firing squad.

There is an

bright orange tray

before him.

He carefully opens the

greenish yellow paper just

using his pale fingertips.

He picks up the bun

and with a surgical touch,

like a NATO airstrike,

he picks out the onions.

White shirted

high-school kids

sprint towards the arcade.

He’s trying to eat healthy.

Charbroiled chicken in his

hands.

Small coke.

Small fries.

His nose wriggles.

The air smells of

cheap perfume mixing

with expensive perfume.

Hair spray, gel and mousse,

quarters in pocket, new dresses

open boxes and happiness in a

bag.

Of burnt out plastic,

and too much makeup.

The crowd growls slowly

in unison.

Heads bobbing up and down,

like prairie dogs in a hot

summer morning.

He chews his chicken sandwich,

carefully counting each bite.

Conversations jumble:

“This pizza is good,”

“Are you gonna eat that last

fry,”

“. . .that guy is hot,”

“. . .think she’ll go out with me?”

Sip the Coke,

read the little copyright on the

side.

There is greens and creams,

pastel colors.

Indirect lightning,

soothing tones.

Mixed with moving flesh

and grinning tones.

He stands up, his meal is

finished.

No sundae today. . .

Maybe later.

(2001)