Don’t Ever Tell Me You Understand What’s Going On

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,

grilled chicken,


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.


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