A food court filled with freshmen,

Racks of stainless steel pots and pans clang while piled high,

Taller than a cold iron mountain.

Mystery abounds: the lines grow and shrink at random.

Are the cookies cooked today?

Grabbing a warm, wet tray, I begin my journey.

I glance at the sandwich bar full of white meats and orange cheeses;

Shrieking girls frenzy over the green hummus and day old croissants.

Chick peas smashed into a paste, how good could it taste?

Hummus has its moments, but not on this brisk day.

The smell of fried food dances in my nostrils.

Possibly a pile of soggy fries for my mid-day meal;

Sitting beneath heat lamps for hours,

As employees drip sweat on them as their shift passes?

Disappointment overcomes me: the entire line is consumed by “Chicken O’s”

The meal portion of the eighteen Wheeler Dealer.

Except, that is, for the pan of long grain jasmine white rice.

I weigh my options with a sad inevitability,

Lunch, as always, will suck.

I crane my neck, struggling to see the soups,

Hoping one can save me from another chicken sandwich.

Pearly white cream of potato and the deep red of Alaskan Chili in the steaming pots

Mmmm, spicy, meaty, Alaskan chili.

I grab a bowl from the stack and fill it;

Hot to touch, leaving my hand red as I set it on my tray.

An ancient soda fountain fills my big purple cup with a sad syrupy pseudo-soda,

Tasting of old sugar in too much water.

I move a few paces for a checkout line, but which should I choose?

The modestly hot girl or strange large kid who might just undercharge?

If I choose one this week, I know the other will be an option next week, same time same place.