poem of the day 07.14.14

fine dining in america

there are twelve or thirteen of them

at one table

it is almost biblical

plates and napkins are stacked in dirty piles

cup and beer mugs like chess pieces

there is more leftover food on the table

than some countries see in a week

she is bitching at the manager

because one of their meals came out later than the rest

someone had to watch the others eat for a minute

before he was given his own trough of slop to consume

and now she demands satisfaction

this is fine dining in america on a saturday night

where they seat you with a smile

and give you tonight’s manager’s name

because they expect a complaint, they expect the problem

chain restaurants with twenty big screen televisions

raining down every sports channel known to the free world

where the music is so loud that you have to scream

to the person sitting next to you

or you just give up

and sit there in dumb and stunned silence

your very own neighborhood pub an grille

complete with proustian menus of no merit

and food described as stacked, slathered, smothered,

tender, rich, juicy, stuffed, heavy, drizzled, dripping

oppressed, choked, asphyxiated, loaded, piled, amassed

with the same adjectives that will most likely

end up on your medical report one fine day

everybody looks the same in here

dirt tans and t-shirts with some ordinary sarcasm scrawled on it

tired, over-worked, flabby masses

beaten down from days spent shopping

and suffering this weekend’s blockbuster movie

they are digging into the two for twenty meals

and shouting at the television screens

as the manager leaves the last supper fat and contented

with the promise of gift cards and free coca-cola

he’s stalking the space looking for the next misery

as we lift forks and spoons and knives

down glass chalices of watered down, ice cold beer

with a sweaty waitress grinning over us

at the ready to kiss our fat, greasy asses

and ask the eternal question

do you still have room for dessert?