The Usual, Please, on Cracked

Wheat with Mayo

The tanned woman in the Midwest deli

yesterday re-convinced me I’m superficial.

Not that I needed re-convincing since

regularly I’m the irregular normal person

at the international annual convention

of practitioners who see things differently.

Whenever they feature that multi-humped

camel in their closing ceremonial parade

shaped like a cloud lolling overhead

I can only stiffen my neck and note my

intermittent blues and thus always miss

my chance for imaginative prefabrication.

I’ve tried those correspondence courses

that guarantee amazing untapped sectors

of one’s brain will suddenly come alive

and have in fact vastly improved both

my cartoons depicting eye-patched pirates

and my respect and appreciation for one’s

childhood wounds. But more often I’m

forced to demand my money back then

simply reinvest it in the faster foods—or,

if available, the finer foods served fast—

or deftly pocket it to fund fevered outings

in search of Brillo, two-for-one foaming

drain de-plugger and of course cheap old

Beaujolais Nouveau. Just once just once

I’d like to walk into my local sub shop, take

my place in line, chin held high, and not

let the predictable dilemma between lean

pastrami and freshly compressed head cheese

reduce me to my usual common denominators.