As I eat my diner breakfast,
He walks through the door.
His legs are short, his eyes are bright,
his fur is evenly black and white.
The giant sits at the counter,
and with his fat paw beckons the waitress.
She approaches, nervously, and hands him
a menu, which he takes, as if he can read.
He pads the front page three times,
holding her eyes to see if she understood.
She mouths “all of it?”, and shockingly
the giant nods, and raises three fingers.
“Thrice?” she asks, and he grins,
revealing sharp teeth beneath his wet nose.
As the food is brought out, three of each,
he tears into it with gusto and fervor.
Ten minutes go by, then ten more, as
I stare in awe and horror at this giant
as he chews and gnaws and licks and bites
and slurps and smacks and sucks and swallows.
As the last morsels are eaten and the final crumbs cleaned,
the manager, who dare not approach it himself,
sends the waitress with a bill to the
hopefully sated giant.
She hands it to him, which he stares at,
crumples, tosses in the air, catches with
his mouth, and swallows.
Then, from within his trench coat,
he pulls out a shotgun and fires at the ceiling twice.
As we all cower and pray, the giant looks about
smiles smugly, and heads to the door, but stops:
He pulls out a card and flicks it at the waitress,
turns around and walks out. We hear his truck rumble,
and the waitress reads the card out loud:
“Giant Panda: Eats shoots and leaves.”
The waitress stares through the door,
and the manager looks at the ceiling,
I quietly go to the counter,
I pay, and then leave.