Mariah the misanthrope is crying in drive-thru

and I tell her to sit on the floor of the booth

before customers see her and wonder

what the fuck is going on.

Terry the pervy manager has gone to the bank

to get us change for the hundreds in our drawers

so Mariah sits at my feet while I take orders

for beef and cheddars while also

running the cash register. I glance down

at her occasionally and can’t see her face

buried in her hands. Every few minutes

I pass her down stiff brown napkins,

the Meat Palace logo catching her tears,

and I almost say

I didn’t think you were the kind of girl who cried

but being a misanthrope

doesn’t mean anything

when it comes to

a broken heart.