Jad Sheikali
Turkey Club West
The sweet, tangy crunch of a perfectly placed pickle breaks the silence.
In my mouth at least.
This damn bland cubby has become my living room, dining room,
and sometimes, bedroom.
I open my chocolate pudding with the eagerness of an inmate,
Awaiting his monthly conjugal visit,
Needing a fix of excitement, something new,
Something to keep my mind fresh.
I delicately open a bag of chili cheese Fritos,
Fearing its crinkly loudness,
Only to be thwarted by the loud crunch of the cheesy goodness,
Attracting a myriad of stares and glares felt through the grey walls.
I pull out my banana with confidence,
Certain that its quiet skin will not alert my peers.
As I peel it back, revealing its sweet, tender flesh,
An explosion of laughter interrupts my bliss,
Clearly a Freshman.
I destroy all evidence of my leisure in the trash bin and get back to work.
As I flip through the pages of my textbook I begin to wonder,
What would Linguistic Anthropology taste like deep-fried?
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