New McDonald's Farm

Hot fat meat smoke

draws them from the street

down to the daily special,

lured under greasy arches to sit at the table

painted red for salivation.

They stay to feed, addicting to minimum wage.

Hired on to fill and empty fry-vats

employees in sweaty uniforms circulate

recyclables and unrecyclables,

slipping food items in coded wrappings,

rotated to the counter where hunger meets production,

orders given and taken in standard diction.

Simple punches exchange pictures on the menu

for pictures on the till,

coinage fingered like an abstract.

At the coffers assistant managers

with shiny chins offer profit to the banks,

paying off stupefying dupes in fatty scraps

to breed dumb as unread rabbits

lined up insatiable, sniffing the village edge

where fields yield to malls and Macs,

seeking and making and

seeking and making

more and more burgers

until the world belongs to

two rich men with no books,

feeding, fed, gone.