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.


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