Fat Boulevard
by Road
Here is where my father perished, not in that hospital bed
on the fifth floor, but rather fifth car back in the drive-
thru, fifth man back in the popcorn line at the neighborhood
movie house, fifth man up for a taco encharito double',
first guy to admit it and lovin' every bite.
Thanks, boulevard of dreams, you're a tacit curse and
nightmare, to me....
But promotional coupons harness us all, pimp us around and up
and, especially, out (by about thirty pounds or twelve kilos
if you're dogged by the metric system. We all get pimped
by greasy fast foods, interglobally).
I'm not going to do much about all the dreck on the Drive...
that's for the Health Department and Dr. Dean on the radio.
Just know, oh promulgators of saturated oils, that
as I bite into that fried chicken or fish burger, it's still
30% less fat than what my dad ate through his Happy Meals.
And from fish I graduate to salads.
And the net from salads on the Avenue of Chubs will drive
you back to the wintery hinterlands where you belong.
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