to a heart attack,
that greasy, salty
hunk of heaven.
Oh, lowly worker,
be my savior.
Bring me a box,
a bag, a promise
of fries, of fat.
Hand me my
happiness, my hope.
I park close to
your neon church,
engine idling, bask
in the tanning bed
glow of your lights.
Secret sauce, kiss
my lips, dribble
into darkness,
baptize me.
