Monday, June 24, 2013

Fulsome Prison

Humid downtown 
mornings—in June you simply can't 

escape the oily 
pungent smell 

of waxy 
potatoes frying—

off to some pale ideal of
lucidity 

in burnt-iron troughs of cheap 
grease.

Imagine over-
abundant mounds 
of russets cajoling red-
golds maybe 
even fingerlings—torched

crisp and lingering imperatives 
to crack and 
break your fast—

but also just soft 
and bland and brown 
and plain-

as-day enough to quickly 
fix it.

No comments:

Post a Comment

HOW DO YOU FEEL?