While driving through McDonald’s
for the nineteenth time
that week alone, he paused and stared
at their menu sign.
Little flecks of red and gold
upon a field of white
littered with black curving shapes,
tiny strips of night.
The world upon its axis slowed
and time refused flower
as the patron held those shapes
and crumbled ‘neath their power.
The tears came quick but quietly–
he couldn’t hear his sobs.
The server’s voice was poetry;
the neon lights were God.