Ode to the Guy Trying to Find Sushi at the Dallas Airport

June 16, 2011

There’s a shuffling of a stool,

A dropping of a suitcase.

Exclamations of exasperation

As he drinks in the décor of this place.

We sit together in “The Cowbell Cafe.”

There are steer horns on the wall.

He motions for a waitress,

But they don’t seem to hear him call.

His Blackberry buzzes as his V-neck plunges.

This prodigal son of L.A.

He’s stuck with real living humans

And has contempt for their bumpkin ways.

I’ve got a hot dog in hand.

He looks disgusted with my choice.

“Is this your home airport?” he asks.

“No,” I reply with a bun-muffled voice.

A waitress finally approaches

Hair tussled, apron applied loosely.

He asks with dead-pan demeanor

If “The Cowbell Cafe” has sushi.

The waitress, patient, cranes her neck,

Checking the baseball game on TV.

A smile suppressed, she answers back:

“Not here we don’t, honey.”

“Chicken Caesar Salad,” he flings the menu.

“I suppose that’s what I’ll get.

But no onions, plenty of pine nuts

And I’ll have the raspberry vinaigrette.”

“The Cowbell Cafe don’t have that dear.”

He shudders and recoils.

“Fine.  Then I’ll just make due

With some grated parmesan and olive oil.”

He’s must be upset by his own obliviousness

That the Texas Rangers are up 3-2.

“We don’t have that either, honey.

How ‘bout I bring some Ranch for you?”

The waitress and I lock eyes.

The guy must work for Gucci.

I’d rather eat an airport hotdog

Than be disappointed by unavailable



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