I walk to Bartlett, twelve twenty-four, 

A time forbidden—yet through the door. 

The choices stand where they always stay, 

But chicken, I think, will do today.

 

A plate in hand, the line is slow, 

Ten minutes pass—at last, I go. 

One tiny thigh upon my plate, 

It was not worth the wait.

 

A cup I grab, but none remain, 

No plastic left—I feel the pain. 

A coffee mug must play the role, 

For Diet Coke that fills my soul.

 

I turn to grab a silver fork, 

Yet none are found—just spoons, of course. 

A spoon for chicken? A brutal fate, 

But such is life at Bartlett’s gate. 

I wonder where the forks have gone, 

Vanished, missing, lost at dawn. 

Some say pledges take them all, 

For brothers at the house, their stack is tall.

 

Why forks, not knives? A mystery deep, 

The ratios now make us weep. 

Ten to one, the knives remain, 

Yet forks have vanished, it’s not the same. 

The forks and cups they’re all gone, 

But why has this gone on for so long? 

Perhaps demand, perhaps neglect, 

Or just poor planning—have yet to correct. 

I’ve thought to sell them by the door, 

A black-market fork supply store. 

Not for profit, just for hope, 

But every day, we learn to cope. 

We dream today won’t be the same, 

We dream for forks to end this game. 

We dream to pierce our chicken right, 

But spoons persist—we lose the fight. 

And so I saw, and so I chew, 

And I’m still at Bartlett at one twenty-two.