CW: Suicide
I don’t mean the ranch, with Little Joe and Hoss,
and their calico-caricature women
—pointy breasts, big hair—
No, this was a cafeteria
Dead cows strung up in the walk-in
it wasn’t like the meat counter at Publix
I herded customers through the line
with a fake smile under my cowboy hat
Side salad, ma’am? Right here
While Alan bussed tables
Hey, listen to this!
He’d raise a stack of trays
like a set of chocolate wings
and release them perfectly,
drumming the song:
In-A-Gadda-Da-Vida
With the kit from my fringed suede purse
I sewed a button on his shirt
The night our manager’s hand brushed my ass
and I stomped his foot—that was instinct,
and striped Adidas fury—
Alan said, Right on, Mad
In the end, I was no more his friend
than our hats were real straw
All he said was
they broke up; his girlfriend hated him
But she’d made a wish he was dead,
and he granted it
Fifty trays beating a dirge now
hoofbeats clattering down a canyon of grief
Would you like sour cream, sir, on that baked potato?
In-A-Gadda-Da-Vida
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