The Fucking Food Court

The Fucking Food Court

I’m at the fucking food court

Lunch break from work

Tourists doddering around in the worst clothes money can buy

Stiffer and whiter than a George Segal sculpture

Reading the menu boards with piercing concentration

and then wandering aimlessly away

to Johnny motherfucking Rockets

College graduate executives from Iowa City

Roman holiday big vacay to The Big Orange

hot fun in the summertime

next week it’s off to Las Vegas to catch Rod Stewart

I march to the Mediterranean stand

Greek salad like an Argonaut

I take the table next to six children

Six thirty-year old children

They’re not eating their food

They’re laughing at their food

“FRENCH FRIES…I LOVE FRENCH FRIES!” he smiled

“I LOVE FRENCH FRIES, TOO!” she smiled

One of them stared at six packs of catsup laid out in front of him

“I NEED MORE KETCHUP! I DON’T HAVE ENOUGH KETCHUP!” he yelled, smiling. He wore thick glasses with a prescription writ out for a telescope

A very serious black woman in a car coat said very softly, “Don’t yell, Donnie, it’s not polite. Eat up, we only have half an hour”

“BUT! BUT! BUT!” Donnie protested louder than a solicitor

“SHHHH” she shushed

“I need more ketchup!” he whispered oh so very loudly, grinning until his thick glasses tilted crookedly on his face

Small children walked by a few stared at the old children

The old children didn’t notice

They were in their own world

A world of French Fries