ODE ON A VENDOR LUNCH

with profuse apologies to John Keats, and all his descendants, and all his ancestors for that matter.



Thou still famish'd stomach of business,

Thou foster-child of boredom and slow time,

Sylvan meal, who canst thus express,

A paid-for tale more sweetly than our rhyme:

What onion-ring'd legend haunts about thy shape,

Of soups, or sandwiches or both?

In Bennigans, or the tables of Chili's

What waiters or waitresses are these? What hostesses loth?

What mad e-mails? What struggle to escape?

What drinks and desserts? What wild ecstasy?



O rotund shape! Fair Attitude! with brede

Of marbled beef and shrimp overstuffed,

With forest cake and salad weed,

Thou, sleepy form, dost tease us quite enough

As doth Eternity! Cold leftovers!

When old age doth this generation waste,

Thou shalt remain, in midst of working woe,

Than ours, a vendor man, to whom thou say'st,

"Beauty is Food, food beauty, -- that is all

Ye know on earth, and all ye need to know."



Thanks, Mike, for all the lunches.