When my soul, mind,
desires a rest from the harsh reality-
that is my life-
I don’t turn to my Instagram
That’s my 24/7 turn-to for the days
that punctures my gut with a bullet of doubt
and stabs my conscious with guilt.
Though every slot in the parking lot
is C O N S T A N T L Y
Filled to the brim with
humming Ford Fusions,
and left-over crisp crumbled of paninis.
The sights of the logo-
the goddess with overflowing locks blessed with a content smile-
Always act as a barrier between
my inner-core happiness and my outer discontent exterior.
The logo, though,
isn’t the factor that stokes a fire
Of purified cheeriness
In my heart.
It’s the soup.
Vegetarian Summer Corn Chowder.
Bistro French Onion Soup.
And Baked Potato Soup.
No matter the flavor or seasoning,
The soup served there is impeccable:
broth-saturated egg noodles,
a drawing of pre-whipped heavy cream,
The credited common recipe
For each and every bowl of relishing liquidy goodness
is served with a metallic lustered spoon.
with steam fuming over the sides-
Was a signal of comfort;
it reminds me of the simplistic way
Dished on the side,
Often burnt bits of charcoaled bread-
and one petite sour strawberry lemonade
Are my casual-and-repetitive
Side dish orders.
Tearing the toasted-to-charred
Bits of crostini
between my brace-laced teeth,
While gulping down a spoon of
brothy Cream of Chicken,
I was in heaven.
I was huffing
the scent of the lemonade
as if it were a drug;
I was buzzed
with a stigma
of combustial energy,
Which was throbbing in the pathways
of my arteries.
Ten -and-a-half pounds later,
I have no regrets;
The flab and stretchmarks on my
Flawless legs are nothing
But reminders of my euphoric
Sensation of breaking the film
of a smooth bowl of Chicken Noodle.