Poem for Display in a Shopping Mall Food Court

No porridge here! Everything is always just right. Times & temperatures are set by central decree. They strain the plankton from the fryers once a shift.

Here, you have choices. You can pick a different transnational brand of transfat for every course. You serve yourself — who better? — in bucket-shaped seats.

Discrimination has no place here; there’s room for everyone with six dollars in their wallet. True, the fixed gap between seat & table edge may make hunchbacks of some & force others to sit sideways, the prow of a distended gut catching crumbs in lieu of a tray. But they’re neither too hard nor too soft, these seats. E pluribus unum: all asses conform to Formica.