fast food

i don't understand
you, you yell towards
the metal box
painted a high
gloss yellow. what?
you say again,
and what comes back
crackled and high
pitched.
the sound is like
that of a gemini
space capsule,
garbled and full
of static, yet
the person speaking
to you is
is nine feet away
at the window.
you can see her
with her headphones
and wires, scratching
a bump on her head
in the rounded
mirror that reveals
what's just around
the corner of this
luge like drive thru.
spicy, you articulate,
crispy too.
rice, not beans,
fries. no slaw.
dark meat. you
want a number
four then, the voice
says. but it's too late
you've moved past
the colorful photo
totem pole of food.
sure, you say. why
not. something
else is said, but now
you are on the far side
of the moon at the money
window. you pay,
then go to the next
window where they
give you napkins
and a straw and make
one more pitch
to sell you a batch
of home made
cookies, then you
drive another two
feet and a bag
is handed to you.
your drink too.
as you drive away.
and eat your filet of
fish that you didn't
order, you sigh
and vow to make
your own lunch
tomorrow.