The Restaurant’s Countertop
is scratched metal.
Splinters of light bend and refract,
radiating outward in concentric circles
so that, no matter where
you look, it seems as if you
are staring at the sun
– though less bright –
and all the circles of light
are planets trekking their
ways across the galaxy of
polished gray steel.
A nebula of cloudy,
milk-white steam engulfs
the countertop as the cook,
a sweaty and rushing
linebacker of a man,
slams down a basket o’ fries and
disturbs the universe.
