Far from the Fina gas station of your youth,
not teaching in that New England College
dreamt of in grad school, walking Jean Talon,
looking for a reasonable soup, you’re done.
Under the radiant lamps of Rona,
you picked out things as if being watched
by that married woman in Chicago
who had opinions on bathroom fixtures.
You’re the subject in an undergraduate
poem, appearing as “fat and crying,”
but, importantly, you inspire the speaker
to never listen to her stupid boyfriend.
At Wendy’s, in Les Galeries d’Anjou,
you received the Thousand Island Dressing
of Life! By the sun of the house your father built,
not just the wing of faith—the whole frickin’ bird.
This appeared in the July/August 2012 issue.