Edgar Allan Poe's Oldsmobile

In the afternoon scoot thru McDonald’s behind five other cars,
I waited for two cheeseburgers, fries, and an orange drink. I sat still
and waited.
No red orbs glowed through gloom as disturbed dying distant stars.
Noticed I though the parked cars—the Chevys, Fords, one Oldsmobile.
I felt fated

as the line dragged slowly, buzzing out—apparently delivery day.
The minimum wage workers double-dutied it between
window and truck
like speedy mists hauling boxes cold and box warm all the way
into a back room or basement closed away to public scene.
Then, in some kind of luck

I glanced back to the parking lot and glimpsed an austere black crow
perched atop the fading roof of the late eighties Oldsmobile.
His left eye
snapped shut and open in ominous beats of misery and woe,
filling me with wrongful dread, actually portending the coming thrill
of a free apple pie.