Food Court

I imagine saying the word to a kid; “food court”,

To Barbie, or Lewis Carroll, maybe.

“What do you think?” I’d ask.

Some dim might jail a hot dog, or ice pop, but,

I bet most people think court like King Arthur, or Penelope.

Some young maidens and brazen knights boozing a circle,

And a jester bobbing round with a bell on,

Only it couldn’t have been fun cos no one brushed their teeth,

Or washed or chewed or used tampons.

I always imagine the women cleaned up a bit, and that’s not fair-

Though it seems more likely. (Stop it).

When I was younger, I thought of it like that- like a fucked-up food court.

You know, classic trash-down/stripped-up watering hole.

All this junk to be devoured; cheap lard and fried strings

And these brownsquished globs, gritty,

The word ‘masticate’ comes to mind, for some reason.

They had Papa Jones and Eddy or Rosa’s, and someone like Harry or Luke who owned America,

Ol’ Taco’s Mexicali- and if you’re lucky a really Fresh deli,

Where they’d wilt lettuce till its ashamed apathetic,

And hides in some mayo quilt.

At some point they got fried rice and ginger cos its different,

The fancy joints have sushi, nowadays, I’ve heard.

Called choices, round ten of them.

All these options, and they all suck.