The front of the place
Smells like buttered
Noodles if you served them
In a shoe
The carpet is brown
To hide stains
Half deflated balloons
Dance sadly under the
Air vent

"So sorry, food will be out
In just a minute!"
She runs back from
Behind the counter
Into the kitchen
The cooks and her
Arguing in mandarin

That's fine I say
I'm not in a rush

I sit on the leather couch
Across from a cloudy tank
Full of fat bright orange carp
They swim lazily in circles
Bumping into each other
And the glass, not understanding

Breathing their own ****
That tumbles in the air filter
Bubbles at the bottom of
The tank

I think about going to
Sit back at my desk
While locking eyes with
The fattest one of the bunch

There are worse ways to exist
At least my ****
Gets pumped into someone
Else's tank