We take a trip to London
and my daughter asks me to buy her a Taco Bell.
“Please, Dad. Buy me a Taco Bell!”
She watched an influencer on YouTube
crunch their way through seasoned beef,
CREAMY JALAPEÑO SAUCE,
running down his chin.
Hey, we’re in London, baby, I’ll buy you a Taco Bell!
I’m shaping up for Dad of the year!
In just five minutes time
Leo will deliver Taco delectability
on his moped of marvels,
straight to our hotel door.
It takes thirty minutes.
Make it forty.
But it’s finally here!
My daughter laughs with relief,
imaginings and expectation
ushering in contentment upon horizon’s beckoning.
The bells on the greaseproof paper rustle rather than ring,
heralding feasting delight,
until my daughter’s face drops in disappointment.
It looks like Leo didn’t handle with care.
Maybe we’ll call it Taco dust
sprinkled on seasoned slime?
“I was really looking forward to my Taco Bell?”
I know darling, but that’s capitalism for you.
Moment after moment
of overpriced shit
and pointless disillusionments.