I see her on most Saturday nights
standing behind that counter
She hands out Coke and pop corn
to people speaking, seeking their dreams.

She gently wraps hot dogs in white paper napkins
taking care not to let mustard and ketchup drip
And she watches as the people disappear from view
in a futile search for their dreams.

A tear falls from her unmade-up eye
and rests on her cheek like a tattoo or a clown
She can feed the hunger of the hunters
but can only wait for her own dream.

'One day he’ll come,' she tells herself,
'and take me away from Cornettos and this.
Dry roasted nuts will be no more
when my knight comes for me...

'I’ll know as soon as I see his face
that he is the one - the dream.'
Then I see the ring, so I smile and flush
and sigh, for the dream is lost.

I see her still, my Butterkist girl,
but she no longer smiles with my Coke.
I take a straw and leave her standing there
I must search for my own dream.