I hold you. Clad in papered foil
(or is it paper foiled?) peeled
back, you slyly reveal the arc
of your sagging bun as we sit
in the driver’s seat alongside
Highway 20. I guess you were
fresh when you were bundled
at 11 a.m., with your steamed
(or ’waved) third-ground-pound
of meat—whose provenance can
only be imagined—topped off
with a generous slice of meltable
dairy product. After the clerk
slid your moon-mission wad
across the counter and I meted
out scrounged change in return
I pumped red and gold vinegared
condiments where I could pry
apart your beef and congealed
cheese, squeezed more vinegared
pickle through a plastic sheath,
spooned a stainless ladle or two
of limp chopped onion from a bin
resting in a bath of meltwater,
and then, finally, rewrapped
your corpse in that disposable
mini spaceblanket in preparation
for docking with my waxed vat
of caffeinated iced Pepsiwater
and a quick orbital rendezvous
with my vinyl command module.
Whence the toasted pretzel bun
or the dainty slider packaging,
the gourmet marinated onion,
Gruyere or Beecher’s No Woman
or slab, perhaps, of Cougar Gold,
hot-house heirloom, crisp arugula,
and stoneground imported mustard?
They are in someone else’s dream
today, but not in mine. Yes, you,
my dear, are so much more alive.
You are what I crave. Sometimes
only a gas-station burger will do.