The man and woman next to me are done picking at their fries.
The woman has an exposed knee and the man has long hair
I order a burger and fries, excited by this rare chance to dine alone.
The sexy couple get up in their coats and go psst, psst, psst.
A weed breeze is let in.
I am entitled to all the ginger ale I want so long as I never leave
for any reason other than to smoke. All I have to do is ask for more.
The waiter has a cord.
My burger and fries come and both are good. A friend out west
texts to say I would be proud of him because he is pushing buttons
at the federal NDP convention in Edmonton.
As a white, Jewish, able-bodied, cis-gendered, middle-class man,
I often feel like the character bit by a zombie screaming
I am picking at my fries, but my waiter will not ask, “Are you done,
or are you still picking?” I will have put everything on my plate
in a way I read you should.