Analysis of You Cant Write a Poem about McDonald's

“You Canʼt Write a Poem about McDonaldʼs”
Noon. Hunger is the only thing
singing in my belly.
I walk through the blossoming cherry trees
on the library mall,
past the young couple coupling,
by the crazy fanatic
screaming doom and salvation
at a sensation-hungry crowd,
to the Lake Street McDonaldʼs.
It is crowded, the lines long and sluggish.
I wait in the greasy air.
All around me people are eating--
the sizzle of conversation,
the salty odor of sweat,
the warm flesh pressing out of hip huggers and halter tops.
When I finally reach the cash register,
the counter girl is crisp as a pickle,
her fingers thin as french fries,
her face brown as a bun.
Suddenly I understand cannibalism.
As I reach for her,
she breaks into pieces
wrapped neat and packaged for take-out.
Iʼm thinking, how amazing it is
to live in this country, how easy
it is to be filled.
We leave together, her warm aroma
close at my side.
I walk back through the cherry trees
blossoming up into pies,
the young couple frying in
the hot, oily sun,
the crowd eating up the fanatic
singing, my ear, my eye, my tongue
fat with wonder
of this hungry world.