Chicken Wings

He clears the table next to me,

Dressed in a red shirt and a red cap,

Sporting a small waist and a thin mustache

A third world Super Mario,

Working cheerlessly in the food court

Of a packed Sunday mall. 

I watch him slink to the waste bin in the corner,

But just before he throws the trays in,

He stops for a second, 

Looks around,

And not catching my gazing eyes on him,

Quickly tosses

A half-eaten chicken wing 

From the plate 

Into his mouth.

While my third world Super Mario

Contentedly masticates,

Leaning against the corner wall,

A faint smile of victory still playing on his lips,

I look at my own plate,

And suddenly the chicken wings

Are no longer just chicken wings.