After several attempts,
I get it across—
burger,
with caramelized onions.
Something that basic
should not be difficult.
The fry cook heaps
raw onions onto the patty.
The bun is untoasted.
The meat looks undercooked.
I move to send it back.
In the hubbub,
the cashier hands my order
to a man walking by.
“Sir! —"
He returns it,
handled, soiled.
Where is a manager when you need one?
A boy—seventeen,
pimply,
reeking of cigarettes.
I explain.
Yes, Sure, there is a problem.
Why not accept it?
What is he supposed to do?
Then the owner,
sympathetic,
full of good intent.
She promises systemic change.
I wait for hours.
Nothing happens.
I am hungry.
I’m no longer sure what I want.
a good burger,
better service,
an apology,
justice.
I leave.
Tell everyone to stay away.
Yet I know
tomorrow
I’ll be back.
