fast food

At the corner
of Riverside and Black Pine Cemetery Road
across from my graveyard of origin
(they tried to bury me
at a crossroads but couldn’t get the permits)
is my favorite Sonic
which smells of hotdogs and onions
and is always full
of happy college students
who laugh
and race their cars up and down the road
so that the cops cite them
sometimes for driving too fast
and sometimes for noise pollution
when they get out of their cars
and dance the Thriller dance(badly)
and sometimes for indecent exposure
when they make out in the graveyard
where it’s quiet
(usually).

In the mush that I think with now
I have memories of the back seat of a car
and a boy who screamed so
when he saw them coming
and he ran
(oh so fast)
but I was still seeing the perfect solution
to my chemistry homework
(he didn’t kiss well enough to hold my attention)
so I was slow following him.
But soon I didn’t care
because I had found bad poetry
and I knew that no matter how fast my food ran
I would catch up with him
(sooner or later)
and dine on his fine brain
and mushy kisses.
I know where he hangs, after all.


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Written for "Poetry Zombies: Dawn of the Dreck!"  [18+].