Fast Food

       

They were sitting across the aisle in McDonald’s.I had meant to read some ‘Mules of Love’

with a Filet-o-Fish and the

card-carrying people watcher in me took over.

The couple appeared to be in their eighties;

she with fragile, pale, liver-spotted skin, thick bifocals

and stand-up off the forehead white hair

like the silk on fresh shucked corn.

Dressed in a sleeveless lime green blouse,

long white skirt with green and red polka dots

and a plastic pearl necklace with alternating beads

of the same colors.

He was ruddy, a too-red face under a gray crew cut;

a tan knit with a zipper placket

and Montgomery Ward’s shorts,

socks to the knees and tan Hush Puppies.

They sat facing each other, but their eyes never met

and I’d swear they never said a word.

She chewed her fries slow like cud,

he sipped his senior-discounted coffee,

and the stereotypes kicked in.

Dressed for an early dinner date.

Helped one another out of the apartment.

Going back home to TV [no cable],

the afternoon news, in bed by dusk.

At that age how sweet to have someone

to do for and have done.

He got up slowly and disposed of her trash.

They left with the smallest of steps.

Ellen Bass grinned at me from the back of her book

with a slight curled lip at such pre-judgements,

wondering why fast food and not the sushi bar.

Our exiting lunch-liners exchanged pecks on the parking lot,

she with her hand on his cheek, and drove off in separate cars

and opposite directions.

I glanced back at Ellen and assured her that we’d just had

an extra-value meal that didn’t need super-sizing.