In line for the grub of unknown origins
I whip out my wallet to pay for the privilege
of dining with the misfit toys of Easter Island.
Between my fingers the crisp bill flickers to
the florescent lights of garden green and gold.
Behind me I look and see the flowing robes of
a desert monk with curled brown hair in his eyes.
“What the hell do you want?” I ask this strange man.
With the strength of Ali he knocks my front teeth
down my throat and snags the paper from the air.
“The special” he says with a wink and a smile.