the steak house blues

it's a slab

of meat,

12 ounces

of medium rare,

the center pink.

ninety-five dollars on

a white

plate.

a potato is fifteen dollars.

lettuce ten.

bread no where to be seen.

i'm surprised they don't

charge for

the ice in your drink,

for salt

and pepper,

and for the use of their cutlery. 

two hundred 

dollars later,

after cold coffee

with forgotten cream,

still hungry,

you shake your head

and leave,

hoping

Chipotles is still open.