Foodsday Tuesday: "The Wawa"

Readers: I'm currently performing in, helping to choreograph, and acting as the dance captain of a musical that goes up this week. It's left me a bit delirious and really quite hungry. Apologies for the off-beatness...

Once upon a midnight dreary, I was dancing, weak and weary,
To the jazzy beats of a difficult Coleman score.
While I counted, madly clapping, I soon noticed quite a tapping,
From my stomach, no longer napping, napping as it was before:
"Feed me, bitch," my stomach muttered, like it had never done before—
Muttered that, and so much more.

There we were, with feather boas, dancing two by two like Noah's
Animals, because the symmetry is called for in the score.
Blatantly, we wished for slumber—dance captain's job is quite a bummer!—
The dancers, they began to lumber, lumber their ways across the floor.
No longer light or swift of foot were they, just lumbering 'cross the wooden floor,
Moving to that Coleman score.

And the silken sad uncertain rustling of the black stage curtain
Killed me, filled me with exhaustion I had never felt before,
And now I was battling griping of the louder dancers' sniping,
But despite my stomach piping up, I said: "Across the floor!
We'll keep doing this until you're moving well across the floor!"
Only this, and nothing more.

But my stomach, it grew stronger—knew I couldn't last much longer:
"Girl," it said, "I really don't think I can take this any more."
I ignored it, kept on clapping, but it still persisted, tapping,
Not a gentle tapping, no—more like pounding on a door.
And I watched the dancers mamboing right across the wooden floor:
Looked like their legs were getting sore.

"Fine, you win," I told my tummy, "I'll go find you something yummy."
"Can we go? We're feeling crummy," said a dancer from the floor.
"Fine, take off," I told them, sighing. As they did all their goodbye-ing,
I thought of what I'd be buying, buying at that Wawa store:
All the goodies I could buy when shopping at that Wawa store.
Only this and nothing more.

I into the darkness headed, with my feet feeling quite leaded,
But still moving ever quicker, quicker toward the Wawa's door.
Oh no! Here I meet a red light, but the Wawa's just in my sight,
Tummy knew that it'd be all right; knew what it was waiting for:
All the junk food in the Wawa, just what it was waiting for.
Light changed: we approached the store.

My god, there is no explaining just what it felt like attaining
Entry—and my strength regaining!—to that well-lit Wawa store.
Took a moment, looked around me, let that Wawa smell surround me,
Surround me like my loving mother's arms, back home, in days of yore.
I just stood there looking at the marvels of the store,
Then couldn't take it anymore.

To order my Italian hoagie, I cut in front of some old fogie
Talking to his friend about some bogey that he'd made in days of yore.
"Sorry," I said impolitely, but with that monitor in sight, we
Thought we had, in fact, quite rightly, cut in front of that old bore.
Stomach superseded manners columns written long before
We walked into that Wawa store.

Hoagie ordered, receipt printed. "Thirsty!" Tummy subtly hinted,
So toward the beverages we sprinted; opened up the tall glass door.
Grabbed a Snapple and a liter—water's never tasted sweeter!—
Already I was feeling fleeter, fleeter than I had before,
While dancing to that Coleman score.

Stood a while in front of Fritos, then I thought about Doritos,
Nixed them both and went with Cheetos—baked, of course—then looked for more
Foods I knew would fill my tummy, so I grabbed a bag of gummy
Bears. C'est fini, so I headed, headed toward the Wawa's door
To pay before I picked up more.

"PAID" stamped on receipt for hoagie. Caught a nasty look from fogey,
Who, done talking 'bout his bogey, remembered what I'd done before.
Paid the cashier, then I waited, knowing Tummy'd soon be sated
Oh, but oh! how much I hated waiting, but it is worth waiting for
Only just a little more.

Number called; I picked up my food from the sandwich-making dude
Barely outside, sandwich I denuded from the wrap it bore.
Certain I was making a mess, but my stomach couldn't care less,
Said there was no stopping unless the sandwich might fall on the floor.
Can't eat a sandwich from the floor.

And so I ate as I was walking. People passed—I heard them talking,
Talking 'bout the ravenous girl and the trail of lettuce that she bore.
"Ignore them!" Stomach said, and meant it, and how could I resent it,
With what I put it through while I was dancing to that Coleman score,
Mamboing across the floor?

Soon enough, Stomach felt sated. Looked into my bag, debated,
Whether I felt too inflated for the Cheetos from before.
Then, thank god, I recollected, junk food could leave me affected:
Make my skimpy costumes look less sexy onstage than before.
That's what stopped me, nothing more.

Next time that I'm busy dancing and my stomach starts advancing
Its opinions on why hunger's more important than the score,
I'll do my best to remind it, that although I'm right behind it,
That no matter how inclined it is toward Wawa runs of yore,
From now on: salads evermore.