Poem: American Greens

Poetry

Take me back to the Wendy’s salad bar of the ‘90s.

That food safety nightmare, room temperature terror.

It was called the Super Bar.

Paradise on earth.

The lettuce went to work at 10 am, no breaks, back to the ice bed at 10 pm.

No green could withstand the day shift.

I surfed the ocean of dressing, radioactive red French, so thick and so rare.

Decorative kale, the only nutritious item, a show girl out of reach.

I enjoyed a Frosty with my salad.

The holy trinity of bacon bits, croutons, shredded cheese.

The vegetables lay like sunbathers in Cancun.

I begged my parents to let me get a job at Wendy’s when I turned 13.

They told me to focus on school and where did that lead?

To a deep, deep nostalgia.

There was a small pond of pudding for dessert.

Oscillate between chocolate or vanilla.

The jiggling mess heaped on a paper boat,

Pushing along your tray against metal rollers.

The smudges and fingerprints on the glass hood.

Whitney Houston’s “Higher Love” playing.

Free peppermints next to the salt packets.

I imagine Wendy herself looking down at us, proud.

Don’t say there were no golden eras.

Wendy’s got rid of the Super Bar in 1998, because executives said patrons were eating unlimited salad and “getting too good of a deal.”