Under the cathedral ceiling of an Arby’s, my tailbone rooted into a cold, shellacked

seat the same gray/brown as my roast beef sandwich, I am learning how to enjoy

my own company. I haven’t brought a book, phone’s nestled in next to the tampons

in my purse. The Horsey Sauce is strong, sending a tingling burn through my sinuses

and across my scalp like a sudden brush fire. O, god of condiments, O, Kenny Rogers

wooing me with “Through The Years,” O, pimpled teen with your ginger hair and dingy

mop, what are we doing with our lives? Outside, cars, tractor trailers whiz down Street

Road with purpose. Everyone in a hurry. I wish they’d all pull into this parking lot

and come inside. I’d hang curly fries from the ceiling like spicy potato streamers.

I’d unwrench the sign out front, that giant cowboy hat, and put it on my head, remove

the neon lasso and whip it through the air, pull them all into my wide, lonely arms.

Here, in this house of meats, our love could be the cure.