Lunch Poem

lunch is the best meal
of the day, especially walking towards the
green benches against the
clay building and holding
a plasticine iced tea and watching the sky
melt to angels and seasons, and there
are his eyes over a granola bar watching
the seagulls fight over paper
wrappers between the gleaming
motionless automobiles herded into
the asphalt, and lunch is the best
meal of the day even when there
is nothing to eat, and there is an
overpowering color of salad dressing
on the mortared walls, and he is watching the coke
machine whir to life, and his
quarters are making small hymns against
the change slot, and the coke
can he holds has beads of condensation licking
down the spheroid sides, and lunch is
a lesson in quantum physics, with
an aside of ornithology, and there are
white clouds over the fresh vines climbing
over the wooden fences across
the parking lot. it is lunch time. they are selling
fresh oranges, smiling apples, for fifty cents,
and the starlings are perching on the garbage cans,
arguing raucously. it is lunch time
in the beginning of spring. he throws away
his can.