Breakfast Menu

McDonalds, American car park near
the mall, cast iron chairs with mint
color plastic arse dimples, row on
row beneath stuck-on marbled table
tops. Wrappings, still greasy undone
yellow and white like world's worst
sunflower, stare up at the pebble dash
polystyrene ceiling tiles' loose corners.
Texan family round soda fountain
like piglets, little ruddy screwed
faces, shaved-head son wears Stone
Cold Steve Austin skull T-shirt, fat
mom hippie tie-die, who can judge?
They are thirsty and loud nice enough.
Old timer grumbles about taxes in
his truck driver cap pushed back,
says hi to foxy septuagenarians
cruising by his table in their best
thurs am McD make-up and blouses.
Midget Latina server just arrived
and hangs in front, arms inside
her ultramarine work shirt for
warmth. Fat, friendly, hoop-eared
girl bungs burger-crates in the big
trash can by the two swing doors.
Out through the allround huge fish
tank window panes, blank school
photo grey light of a grey day
over white & grey Chevrolets, Buick
pops quick out the drive-thru, food
falling out the corners of its driver's
lips. On the hill, the traffic lights tick
over for the hundredth time today.