He sees how the lettuce
slides around the plate,
yellow and cunning,
mysterious in its ways.
He notes that the fries
are pointing southeast,
that they are sharp and oiled
and spattered with red.
The tomato slices whisper
soft pink obscenities,
their harlot song calling
to his lips, his tongue.
He smells in his burger
the black, smokey flesh
of things small and tender.
And he's back at My Lai.
And he's up and running,
he's running, and around him
the jungle, the colors,
the chaos, the horror.
He's running and stumbling
and heaving and moaning.
He's running, and he's thinking
that he wants to go home.
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