The girl in the fast-food
drive-up window
doesn’t know me,
has no obligation to feed me,
doesn’t care if I am hungry,
doesn’t give a damn
about the small earthquake in my stomach
as my hands grip the steering wheel
and I point my car toward the largess
of her mercantile kitchen.
She could care less
if I had never been born
and will care very little when I die.
But I have the money,
a five and a one.
So she hands a sack of food
through the window
with a smile I didn’t pay for.
She knows this is the way the world works,
kind deeds serving parallel self-interests.
I need the food,
she needs the money.