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Fast Food



I faxed my order

To avoid this wait

But here I stand



The girl seemed

Oh, so apologetic;

She said as much



Worse yet I find

No newspaper

In which to dive



So I gaze about me

Drinking in

The ambience



I peruse the bar

And see one

Sweating through his pours



Reminding me

Of the gift of

My sobriety



I leaf through

Booths and find

A couple holding hands



Reminding me

Of the gift of

My wife



I ruffle my edges

And glance outside

At comic kids at play



Reminding me

Of the gift of

My children



Then arrives my

Errant lunch in

Crinkled paper bag



Another apology

I pay

And walk away



Pause at the door

Fold up my not-there paper

And leave a tip



© 2000 Barton J. Breen