Thursday, January 5, 2012

ode on fried chicken


Sitting in the Safeway parking lot
munching fried chicken

I hunch my shoulders
and try not to be seen,

savoring each
grease-smeared morsel.

I'm afraid of being spotted
by friends and in-laws,

my wife, colleagues and onlookers,
the foodies of Seattle, Washington.

I don't want to be taken for a heathen
or as a brethren of the fat-folks

whom share my name
and history. Those gun-toting rednecks,

purveyors of big trucks and mysterious chickens,
whom I know and somehow

love. Yet still I know I would rather be here,
here in Seattle, Washington,

where I feel like the proverbial

hunching down and eating fried chicken,
waiting for judgment to come.


Eating animals, parts of animals,
parts from which part of the animal

I cannot tell you, dipped
in batter made from an unknown frozen

delicatessen, in grease that has been frying
for years

because pleasure, pure pleasure
is better than the constant thinking

of how I will die.
I will die someday too soon

I know, and to my death-moon I'll say,
You're early, goddamnit. Until then:

what of the joys that are here:
fried chicken, late nights, peanuts, pizza and beer?

Hunker down, chicken-eater!
Get out that egg beater,

set the skillet to flame on the stove, fry drumsticks
without fear:

the last day comes too soon
no matter what you do.

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