Sitting in the Safeway parking lot
munching fried chicken
I hunch my shoulders
and try not to be seen,
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
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
the last day comes too soon
no matter what you do.