No Kings Here

you only eat Burger King

at 12:03am on Tuesday nights

under flickering, broken street lights

in the parking lot

where you're crying

about something

you could have easily

changed the outcome of

the night is suffocating

that summer stillness

crickets clicking, mimicking your heaving

greasy breezes gently caressing your vehicle

like parasitic demons

it's a hellish dream you can't wake up from

realized only in the subconscious

in this metal contraption you are inside of

at midnight you turn to stone

the burger you ate

flipped until golden brown

is now a memory to be forgotten about

except in your stomach

where acid will break it down

at least you hope it will

for you, are not a king at all

just a jester failing to do its job