in McDonald's


having just inhaled
the fast-food diner's dinner
of greasy fries with no ties
to france beyond the name,
a styrofoam steak of full weight
one-quarter pound before it's greased,
sweetly colored, carbonated water
in a plastic cup with a plastic top
and long, clear plastic straw
planted in a carefully measured
mountain of ice, all neatly cubed;
a sun-burned blob in blue bermudas
napkins himself with pudgy claws
while the god that drives the burgers down the throat,
who used to ka-ching incessantly
now digital, computerized, is
humming to itself.

© Mark E. Dougherty