I’m choosing condiments for both of us,
small tubs of ranch sauce, slippery white sacks
of mayonnaise, ignoring my old enemy the Greek
behind me with his Chicken Buns splayed
like White Rabbit Roses,
two hungry poets,
you and me, but mostly me.

It’s nice to think of sesame
lost on your cheeks,
falling on your take-out tray,
all that sadness.

It will take hours to eat
these Burger Kings,
whether I should take out the pickles,
which side to start on,
napkin on my lap,
napkin tucked under my chin.

I love the sight of me
in the lettered glass
and the old Jew on the other side
chewing a Fish Filet
like a German tank
on a snowy road.