Lunch Time

When noon strikes my stomach
like an alarm clock
screaming in my brain,
I want food, sustenance,
something to eat
that ends my hunger.

But I can’t go to lunch
with Carl very often,
for to seek a feast
having him as a companion
means to hear every tale
about some former tummy disaster.

He’ll moan so slowly
each sordid detail of pass ptomaine pains.
Including the trip to the hospital,
whining and scouing the menu
explaining the potential sickness
you could possibly get
from eating a burger or bowl of soup.
Slowly his eyes will widen
in a crazed panic
about how tomorrow's servings will be worse.
Eventually he’ll get headache
over all his former meal doom
and the fear of what will come.
Settling for crackers and a glass of beer
before sobbing uncontrollably
while muttering about sugar and caffeine
are infected with bugs,
then he’ll nearly pass out from the anxiety.

Meanwhile I order my favorite entree,
not thinking at all about other noons.
At least I can enjoy the entertainment
plus watching the snickers of other patrons.