A list of foods were made and sold,
or presented and left alone, cold.
The relieve of hunger at the sight
of the names of unforgivable taste:
Mississippi Mud River, the torrid,
the marinating mangoes in a jar,
the all-for-show keeps the tips,
coming into the steps, the staircase,
the neon green shirt, the sliding
sleuths of thousand island dressing
from the sandwich we shared.
People belching and bleating out
insignias in the shape of sharp
phrases to make a point.
Stella Artois in hand the husband
keeps an eye on his kids so they
don’t burn this whole place down.
A cop asking for a couple of iced
coffees after a long night to trace
the location of a driveby gunshot.
There is a stopwatch somewhere
in this building that is counting
the time it took to get used
to a ceiling of an intricate design.
There are chalked out signs
loudly announcing the new creations
of drinks nobody heard of before.
And then there is one outside on the
sidewalk telling you when and where
a man was found dead.