Around noon,
as if through
a wilderness
I peer into
the Burger
King's windows—
where,
despite the ridiculous
mutated
shit you can get there,
fellows?
gals?
tykes (with those
crowns
on)?
perch—
greedy over
incomplex hamburgers.
Ketchup-red
ketchup
blotches
offwhite napkins,
pools (like
you'd think
it would) on unfurled
rectangles
of tissued wax-
paper, as I
compulsorily
imagine the sound
and the little
tactile satisfaction of its crinkle.
Have I fallen
asleep,
am I
being lampooned?
Nothing
could ever
be this simple.
I mean,
even
the tops
of their buns
are that
kind
of
cartoon-
shiny.