The choice that wasn’t

The trolley approaches

down the isle.

Maddeningly slow

The smell preceding it.

Does Mr. Langolier

Want chicken or

Would It take the beef?

The hostess doesn't know

About the bottomless,

Walking amoebae

That is sitting strategically

in front of her

in 27F, by the isle.

Or maybe she does know

And just pretends,

Keeping appearance.

The behemoth

Places the butter cartridge

Under the chicken Parm,

In its hot tin receptacle

But upside down,

Touching the heat,

Let the processed fat soften

For a neat application.

It's heart is now beating fast.

A little patience,

Moistened with drool.

For the moment,

It inhales the salad

And perversely,

the fruit cocktail

And sponge cake

with its thin,

Impoverished raisins.

It then pounces

on the helpless fowl

With the buttered bun

As the bludgeon.

Do I want the chicken or the beef?!

The question doesn't leave

It's mind, nagging him.

Was that an ironic joke?

"Want" has nothing at all

to do with it.

"Or" is also a failed conjunctive.

The hostess is ignorant,

At the moment,

that despite this aperitif,

The living vortex

will ultimately have both,

Asking embarrassed for more

Like oliver twist,

Making a sham of things.

But It's The Economy squeeze,

And therefore no claim

To self-respect is credible.

By breakfast, she catches on

To whom she's dealing with.

And just places three cups

of tomato juice on the tray,

with commensurate amounts

Of pepper and salt,

A string of a tiny

packets, which she

didn't bother to separate,

like a leash.

Hoping to appease

The famine.

But of course, all for naught.

she had no Tabasco...