The Yawn

Paul Blackburn

The black-haired girl
with the big
                          brown
                                          eyes
on the Queens train coming
                          in to work, so
opens her mouth so beautifully
                          wide
                                       in a ya-aawn, that
two stops after she has left the train
I have only to think of her            and I
                                                                   o-oh-aaaww-hm
                                                                      wow        !

from The Cities (Collected Poems), 1985
Persea Books, New York, NY

You Can't Write a Poem about McDonald's

Ronald Wallace


Noon. Hunger is the only thing
singing in my belly.
I walk through the blossoming cherry trees
on the library mall,
past the young couples coupling,
by the crazy fanatic
screaming doom and salvation
at a sensation-hungry crowd,
to the Lake Street McDonald's.
It is crowded, the lines long and sluggish.
I wait in the greasy air.
All around me people are eating –
the sizzle of conversation,
the salty odor of sweat,
the warm flesh pressing out of
hip huggers and halter tops.
When I finally reach the cash register,
the counter girl is crisp as a pickle,
her fingers thin as french fries,
her face brown as a bun.
Suddenly I understand cannibalism.
As I reach for her,
she breaks into pieces
wrapped neat and packaged for take-out.
I'm thinking, how amazing it is
to live in this country, how easy
it is to be filled.
We leave together, her warm aroma
close at my side.
I walk back through the cherry trees
blossoming up into pies,
the young couple frying in
the hot, oily sun,
the crowd eating up the fanatic,
singing, my ear, my eye, my tongue
fat with the wonder
of this hungry world.

At the Grand Café

Lee Schlesinger


I didn’t see the muffins until I had already ordered
French Toast, which was after all an excellent choice,
It was thick, the bread fresh, and it held
The syrup chastely on its crisp surface. The muffins
Were in a case near the counter. The menu
Said nothing of them - perhaps it said, Baked Goods,
Or even Muffins, but that told nothing - how was one to know?
Of course, they were appealing in the ways
Pastries always are, but the best was the idea of it,
Peach-corn, luxurious confection, unsuspectable, provocative.
But I had already ordered, though no doubt
It was not too late to change my order
Or add the muffins to it - but why bother?
To change would leave the same regret, now
For French Toast, not muffin; and to add would be
Merely an evasion - one must choose, and choosing,
Must exclude; anyway, I didn’t want so much to eat.
I did enjoy the French Toast. As we were finishing breakfast,
Another couple came in, and I thought to jump up
As they got comfortable at their table and say: There is so much
To choose from, look at the muffins in the case,
Read the menu minutely - that vague and trivial hunger
You casually brought in with you this morning, examine it,
Heed it, for what do you hunger this morning,
Ask yourself again, for what do you hunger?