Rich Murphy

A Line for Whatever

At the drive-thru window,
the American poet dots hamburgers
with his blood.  The napkins absolve
words that may slip from the corners
of his mouth.  The squeeze bottle
farts and sputters intention.

The procession of disposable families
idle and crawl in their aerodynamic
bragging rights of urban grease.
On their way to the crematorium.
where they become the fast food
for worms, whatever the unsuspecting
vampires say is said in commodity, fashion.

Beyond the plastic and dumpsters,
they huddle beneath the neon light,
each ignoring the shivers of the others:
Anything larger than suburbia becomes
a herd of mammoths to be hunted
for its ermine and mink.

When he is fired or grows up,
Anonymous ceases his offer, "French
fries with that?" and gets his moment
in the line citizens don't decipher.

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