At the window is a woman you have loved against your diet,

gorged on the look of her with the guiltiest parts of hunger.

Her deft hands dance on the wax wrap paper, forearms

flecked with a hundred spitting oil scars. The fast food tattoo.

She is always here, and you suppose that she remembers you,

from her un-kissed acne years and all the warm paper bags between.

You, who would surrender your torso to the drive-thru window,

to take her by the over-washed polo-shirt collar and have her. 

Her lips would have the cherry pink taste of market-stall gloss,

her mouth drenched in free-fills of fountain cola, and the thing is,

she has seen you, all of your faces in your repeated flash cars, and

she could make you in a minute. Plunge your heart and her hand

into the deep fat, feel nothing. You are ruined, crisp and bubbling.

She scrunches your wrapping. She throws you away.