Breakfast at McDonald’s
needs no location to describe it. Even the restrooms require no extra thought.
It’s that place you go to when your plate is already full and you want no surprises.
In this segment of my new poem, The Breakfast Chronicles, I look at what is a tradition for
the many who can’t bear to deal with forty different versions of coffee at 6:00
am, and want something to chew on besides the traffic reports.
Glenn K. Currie
Breakfast at McDonalds
A road worker in a
yellow reflective vest
Feeds her cigarette
into a long-necked fatboy,
And rushes to a
waiting pick-up truck.
The drive-through
creeps along,
As sleepy customers
mumble orders by the numbers,
And any size coffee
for a buck.
An old man in a
dirty, Tequila Sunrise t-shirt,
Exits a side door and
moves quickly to the fatboy.
He expertly removes
the long-neck top,
And retrieves the
still smoking cigarette, and two other butts.
A disembodied voice
suddenly offers to help me.
I choose a number
three meal and a Newman’s Own large, black.
Fully equipped for
the road ahead,
I join my fellow
commuters for breakfast.
No comments:
Post a Comment