McDonald's

 

McDonalds

 

When the coffee arrived – finally –

after a three song wait,

the coda to an uncomposed melody -

I did not complain it was late,

cold or blatantly lacking

in promised milk and sugar.

The balsawood twizzlestick, too,

had gone AWOL

and she arrived with a look comprised

of injured pride, wounds inside,

and a bowlful of spilled cherries, fried

in something not totally unpleasant.

‘Why did the pheasant

cross the road?’ I might have said,

recalling one who had tried,

could not fly and died.

But I didn’t. So, she did not reply

‘Sir, you forgot your number - 6 -

which is why things did not go as planned.’

And, as for me, I therefore did not say,

‘I am not a number, I am a free man!’

while not a soul laughed.