Straight-spined girl—yes, you of the glinting earrings,
amber skin and sinuous hair: what happened?
you’ve no business lunching with sticky children
here at McDonald’s.
Are they yours? How old were you when you had them?
You are far too dazzling to be their mother,
though I hear them spluttering Mommy Mommy
over the Muzak.
Do you plan to squander your precious twenties
wiping ketchup dripping from little fingers,
drowning your ennui in a Dr.
from the dispenser?
Were I you for one schizophrenic moment,
I’d display my pulchritude with a graceful
yet dismissive wave to the gathered burghers
feeding their faces—
find myself a job as a super-model,
get me to those Peloponnesian beaches
where I’d preen all day with a jug of ouzo
in my bikini.
Would I miss the gummy suburban vinyl,
hanker for the Happiest Meal on Main Street?
—Wouldn’t one spectacular shrug suffice for
begging the question?
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