Waitress Eight-Sixing

My egg lies round, benevolent and truthful.
but my butter melts restless
Dripping like oil onto hot cement
So falls the sweat of her body
The horseflesh underneath surging ahead
like the ice-cream from Japan tastes like lead
Metallic sweetness my only respite. Synthetic happiness.
False hopes and cleverness mixed in with the false predictions of my dreams
a nightmare reality waiting to happen. Ketchup.
And a waitress eight-sixing meatloaf.
the counter was colder than the ice cream
And I’m not happy about it
I meant it as a sound
Not as an insult, my dear