Lord, your favor please
and blessings while your at it
I'm always in the mood for desert
I must make you feel like the cafateria lady
hair wrapped in netting, plastic gloves
all for my protection, all for my nourishment
but I don't look you in the eye, I turn
to the boy next to me and make faces
at your soupy mashed potatoes
I stand in that buffet line happy to be fed
but I don't want the food, I want the cookies
at the end. You pile up protein, carbs,
vegetables, I gag and whine.
What kind of food is this?
What kind of cook are you?
I bet you watch me from that line
I bet you see me garbling up my cookies
and nothing else, I know you do.
The lunch lady was wise, humble and tired
and I bet if you were to go home to her house
she would love cooking for you, I bet
she makes the best cookies ever,
but I'll never know, I'm too busy
scoffing at my little acrylic plate
to notice your kind face, or smile at you
more an animal at its trough than
child blessed to be fed.
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