Is only twenty feet away,
And I can see its structure
Is no different from my own.
Spindly metal legs that creak
As elbows press on the pewter colored top.

No, the contrast is in the acrid smoke
Rising from its center, hissing
“popularity”
In a serpentine whisper from
The cologned, perfumed
Heart of selfies and fake clouds
Bubbling within.
A boiling, writhing, organic concoction.
Almost plastic and thick like corn syrup.

And through the billowing steam,
You can catch
Every so often,
A glint from a bloodshot retina.
Bilious not in appearance
Or from tangible meals,
But from the rich gruel of American Nationalism
And sideways teenage values,
From which if you were to take
A ladleful, you would find protruding
The mutilated talons of a Bald Eagle,
A hunk of rotting apple pie,
Sweat droplets from the bridge of a wannabe Harvard student’s
Nose as he pores over an economics textbook at 3 AM,
And the light lavender sheen
Of red, white, and blue acrylics
Whisked into an equally composed solution.

And, maybe the smoke is only acrid to me,
Maybe to them it smells of newly polished marble,
Bills fresh from the vault,
And silk ties from Brooks Brothers.
Like sweater-vests,
Chipotle,
Parties on Friday Nights.
Maybe for them the tinge of elitism,
Is not too savory, too rich.
Perhaps it is of the American Dream played out right,
Of fortunes,
Of gold bars piled in Fort Knox, a secret cult of gilded Lilliputians,
And puffs of smoke rising from John D. Rockefeller’s imported cigars.
Maybe I’m jealous.
Constructing an Orwellian, doublethink world
Where one is greater than fifteen.
Characterizing in their elitist fashion,
Trying to make aloof the new popular.

But, as the green tinged smoke billows
Around the cafeteria like a verdant plague,
My eyes watering,
Throat red and raw from coughing,
I’m still trying in vain to fan it away with a flimsy, eco-friendly plate.