one quarter pounder big bite

near death by starvation
you go into a 7-11
and stare into
the rolling metal
bars of a hot dog
grille. you look around
to see if there is
anyone in the store
who knows you,
then you whisper.
one big bite, quarter
pounder, which makes
the man say what.
I can't hear you.
speak up buddy. what
do you want. you look
around again, then say.
one quarter pounder,
please. he shakes his
head, putting on his
plastic gloves.
he grabs one out of
the steamy, greasy
glass enclosed
box of culinary death,
but you shout out no.
not that one, the other
one, the third one
from the top. yeah.
that one, you say, as
he disgustingly grabs
each individual hot
dog with his gloved
fingers. they're all
the same, he says.
but you beg to differ.
some are more brown
than the others, you offer.
which makes him say
whatever dude.
mustard, you ask, as
you pay for your small
red box containing your
life support nutrition.
over there, he says,
whipping off his soggy
gloves. ketchup, mustard,
relish, onions. over
there, near the chili
dispenser. thanks you
say, picking up some
rolaids at the counter.