In Touch with What My Culture Might Regard as the Infinite

Grilled chicken, strong beer, and seedless red grapes.
From the middle of the second decade
Of the twenty-first gospel century,

A middle-aged American surveys
Increasingly exhausted memory
And dredges the days when vinyl was all

The funk one had, a black disc lying flat
On a platter while the frail, eternal
Teenager wiped life clean with a felt pad.

Restaurants have replicated themselves
In the dusk of the parliaments of memes,
And nothing is the same remains the same.