Above the shredded lettuce
is cheese that's been made to sweat just enough oil
in a mild mediterranean afternoon
so that it's soft and just the right cheddar of sour
and the shells taste of it, and are tense enough to
crunch, or give to the careful, connoisseur's bite, to yield
beef carrying the taste, like the beast that it was
and the tomato salsa dancing over the top.
There is a line out the door
and the freeway rushes by
and the workers fill orders quickly
and each of us waits cheerfully and patiently.