7-Eleven Cighartha

Buddha downed his Big Gulp in

two mighty sips as I, cretinous

creature of line end, dug madly

for crumpled bills and change,

change, and the Buddha said,

“The trouble with you is,”

and he snapped into his

Slim Jim for dramatic emphasis,

no doubt, leaving me—

who had so recently struggled,

cosmically, with forces so great as

Starbucks and the Arizona Iced

Tea Company and their warring armies of

flavors—leaving me

to madlib his profundity with troubles

(stupidity, sloth, an

indifferent God, parking violations)

too many to name, hanging

on his words while the

register ceased to ring and the

Slurpees ceased to melt, until,

“the trouble with you is,

you think you have time,”

the Buddha said, smiling

beatifically, paunch sagging free,

“motherfucker, time has you.”