Sun Over a Grilled Chicken Wrap
Tuna fish ice cream
is advertised (in German),
with hipster panache,
in brazen, mint green
typeface on the wall
across the food court
while I stuff my face
at a table in the mall,
without a plate,
clutching my wrap as if it were a handlebar,
self-consciously
leafing through the faces
in dating apps, as if they were different
sizes and colours of tee shirts
in a clothes rack at H and M.
Is anyone watching
me scroll? I think and I turn
my phone into a black mirror,
uncap my pen, and write
about tuna fish ice cream, pausing
to stare at the upside down plants
hanging from the ceiling, each one
a jarring work of art, in mockery
of nature.