When I was in the 11th and 12th grades, I spent my weekends working the opening shift at Carl’s Jr. It really kind of sucked, so to pass the time, and because I was an arrogant snob and an ass, I would write tanka—Japanese short-form poems—on paper napkins, and sometimes stick them in the bag with peoples’ drive-thru orders.
This morning, going through some boxes of papers, I came across a loose sheet that had a couple of those poems preserved on it. For posterity, I guess? Anyway, good for some younger-me lolz.
The Head Cook Is Stoned
The head cook is stoned,
I observe from the front-line.
He’s burnt the bacon.
Veronica’d fire him
If she knew, but she’s on break
Love Tanka
Paddle by its side
My eternal fast food soul
Watches while you eat
Ketchup dripping on your shirt
Marks the passage of the years
The paddle referenced in the second poem was an oar I carried around with me at the time, hoping that a girl would call it a winnowing shovel and then we’d make out or something. Yeah, I know.