Marquis McCheever


(No Tomorrow)    

Soft summer light begins to burnish the dawn
as loner Tony, bedecked in purple and dark brown,
skewers imaginary trash with his spike 
so he doesn't have to ignite the deep fat fryers
which he curses for his latest batch of acne.  

Last night, his dreams:  

acres of refried beans,
cold, greasy chopmeat      folded into
soft taco slop supreme,
engulfed in quick-guacamole
to the screams of enraged customers
who, foaming salsa and sour cream
from their mouths, shatter the storefront glass
and carry him out to the processing plant
where Tony discovers that Burrito Supreme
is made from          P e o p l e  .  

"Burrito Supreme is people...
Burrito Supreme is people..."  

Tony chants,
dropping his poker as he staggers
back inside, where the implacable smell
of deep fat promises eternal burrito life.  

Tony watches helplessly
as the Manager-Thing tapes
help wanted signs to the front window
and  realizing that no lousy job
is worth his life, Tony runs home
like there’s              No Tomorrow.

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