An Inconvenient Recession
This morbidly cold Monday night,
Café Manhattan is emptier than everyone's 401(k),
Quieter than the Chrysler assembly plant in Fenton.
Tonight, in welcome peace and silence, I'm debating:
The Central Park Deep-Dish Pie or the South Bronx Lasagna?
Where's the throng of pizza- and pasta-loving patrons,
Those who frequented this eatery seven nights a week,
Up until the recent past
(Before the financial skids kicked the U.S., in its fat ass) —
Range Rover–driving yuppies with Ritalin-riddled kids?
Indulge me; let me venture this dead-on guess:
They're hunkered down, in their overmortgaged fortresses,
Discovering the subtle nuances of Hamburger Helper,
Savoring the flavorful complexities of Rice-A-Roni,
The sating simplicity of Sam's Club burritos and wieners.
And what will people like me do —
Guys who can't even microwave a can of Chef Boyardee —
When Café Manhattans, everywhere, shutter their doors?
Will we have to parade sandwich-board signs reading,
"Brother can you spare an Empire State Pizza/Pasta Combo"?
11/17/08 - (2)
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