Which Major Romantic Fry Cook Would You Be
If You Were A Philosopher

Forehead sweat dripping
onto the burgers,
a tiny shape of the Virgin Mary

taking hold.
Gullible worshippers
making gullible travels to the shrine,

pull the French fry basket
out of the dirty, hot oil,
think existentially about the toil.

Keats, Lord Byron, Shelley,
ain’t got time, gotta fill the belly
of the professors, pimps, construction workers,

after work hurry to the pay phone
to call Betty, a thing of beauty,
she walks in moonlight,

hope to get in her pants tonight,
that would be wrong the Bible says,
the smell of a woman like warm bread,

kan’t have much deeper thoughts than that,
probably cause I have to wear a hair net
to keep my hair from falling

in the food for thought.
I think, therefore I am
like every other fry cook.