Soft shell. Meat. Cheese. Fold. <br />Soft shell. Meat. Cheese. Fold. <br />Soft shell. Meat. Cheese. Fold. <br />Sometimes I think about the ocean. <br />Soft shell. Meat. Onions. Cheese. Fold. <br />I look at the deep fryer, floating islands in vegetable oil. <br />Stainless steel roads, line my insides. <br />Slowly churning bits of sun. <br />Soft shell. Meat. Cheese. Fold. <br />Soft shell. Meat. Cheese. Fold. <br />Soft shell. Meat. Cheese. Fold. <br />I’m in love with a cooper. <br />Not those giant feet with racing stripes <br />and cubicle corners. <br />But the little british miss, who comes on tuesdays. <br />She’s like a coffee shop on wheels, <br />I just want to sit and have a conversation. <br />But she always parks so far away. <br />Soft shell. Meat. Cheese. Fold. <br />Soft shell. Meat. Cheese. Fold. Sauce. Onions. Tomatoes. Sauce. <br />They’re planning on replacing me, soon. <br />Apparently, I’m too old for this job. <br />I philosophize too much. <br />Soft shell. Meat. Cheese. Fold. <br />Soft shell. Meat. Cheese. Fold. <br />The cook has a tattoo of a samurai in prayer. <br />A demon mask beneath his face. <br />A sword thrust into his torso. <br />They call it seppuku, but I don’t know how I know that. <br />Perhaps I was made in Japan. <br />Soft shell. Meat. Cheese. Fold.<br /><br />Daniel Young<br /><br />http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/a-day-in-the-life-of-a-burrito-making-machine/
