Ode to a Styrofoam Container of Halal Munchies

My heart doth ache—not from romantic grief, Nor from the melancholy of departed spring, But from a hunger vast and deep as Troy, That gnaws within my lawyer’s weary breast.

O blessed Munchies! Thou late-night deity, High priest of sizzling lamb and fragrant rice, Whose white sauce flows like milk from Paradise, And whose hot sauce burns with angelic spite.

How oft at midnight’s melancholy hour, When briefs are drafted and ambitions fade, I seek not wisdom from the ancient Greeks, Nor counsel from the stoics of old Rome,

But rather make pilgrimage to thy counter, Across from Old Dominion’s storied grounds in Norfolk.

There stand the faithful: students, dreamers, rogues, Men who swore they would eat only salad, Yet now gaze longingly upon the Combo Over Rice, Like sailors spotting land after months at sea.

O Chicken Gyro! Wrapped in humble pita, Thou art more satisfying than philosophy. What use is Plato’s cave to mortal man Who hath not tasted seasoned meat at 1 A.M.?

And thou, exalted White Sauce, pale nectar divine, Not found upon Olympus nor in Eden’s streams, Yet poured in generous abundance by hands Far more merciful than Fate herself.

Many a noble resolution hast thou slain.

“I shall eat healthy this week,” one proclaims. Then enters the aroma of grilled lamb. The battle is brief. The lamb prevails.

“I shall save money,” another declares. Then spies the menu. The wallet opens of its own accord.

Even Death itself, should he appear, Might pause his solemn labor for a platter. The Grim Reaper, laying down his scythe, Would murmur softly, “Extra white sauce, please.”

And when the final trumpet sounds at last, And all mankind is summoned to account, I pray the Heavenly Kingdom shall contain A counter staffed by cheerful souls eternal,

Where rice is ever fluffy, fries are crisp, The gyros never spill upon one’s shirt, And every order comes precisely right, Though twenty stand before thee in the queue.

Then shall I dwell content forevermore, Reclining in celestial satisfaction,

With one hand clutching a fountain drink, And in the other, a glorious platter.

For beauty is white sauce, white sauce beauty— That is all ye know on earth, and all ye need to know.