In the early autumn in the springtime of their lives,
a group of friends, thoughtless high school boys, too young
to be drafted and unskilled around their female classmates,
piled into a friend’s car and spoke of the damage
They would inflict on the buffet that night. One said he wasn’t
going to waste his time on side dishes but head straight to the carving station.
Another wanted to beat his record by wolfing down two
dozen baked stuffed shrimp, and another bet him that he wouldn’t.
At the door they were greeted by a hastily written sign in magic
marker. The restaurant was closing after the weekend. With that
they doubled-down on their resolve to make the night
memorable. Determined to get their money’s worth and then
some, they skipped the three-bean salad, niblets, and broccoli.
They piled roast beef until blood dripped down their hands.
Next time, they built a tower of shrimp into an edible trophy.
Although they were unloosening their belts full, they persisted.
A plate of cookies and a dish of soft-serve vanilla ice cream
left them to the point of vomiting. Bored, they tossed
half-eaten cookies into pools of melting ice cream and chuckled
as the whiteness dotted the table and their shirts.
They left, knowing they were hurtling into the future. In time,
this night of privilege would fade with other high-school days:
just one night in an age of appetites, which brought into their adult lives
new hungers that the planet could never satisfy.
