Heart Attack Food

I keep finding myself eating at places
that I consider to serve heart attack food.
Faithfully the paramedics arrive on time.
I hold the sides of my face,
should I do something to help?
The paramedics leave without a gurney.
They must have been too late.
It is always a sad story
where they serve heart attack food.
Exept for the paramedics who decide to grab lunch.
These are the only places I see them.
The enigma of shameful diet.
I don't care what the numbers say,
heart attack food is a tragic killer.
Bodies of fathers, mothers, sons and daughters
disappear before they can get the electrodes
through the front door.
My patty melt and o-rings deceivingly smile up at me.
I want to ask the boyish cashier
how many he has seen walk in the door and never leave.
But he has seen too much already.
And laments that he must watch it all for his wage.

There I am. Alone with man's greatest problems.
Dreaming out the window with my food.
As we insist upon eating heart attack food,
we will continue to die this deplorable death.
The paramedics will become mentally unstable,
from all of the life that they see disappear,
lunch break after lunch break.
We might as well start calling ambulences hurses,
and marriages divorces.
These civil servants come winged
and down on my knees I am in awe.
Fighting the nations greatest domestic enemies,
They continue on in the face of defeat.
But I, plagued by human weakness,
continue to where they serve heart attack food.
And the paramedics always come.
Now I see them leave, coke and bag in hand.
Preciously, I trail behind.
Still struck, I utter a hopeful
Thank you