Fried Chicken & Philosophy

savored by lips
intimate with tepid
indifferent to scalds and scolds
utensils
appreciated occasionally
for beauty
form
function
found out in a small cupboard
survivors of rough treatment
tea cups
forged by itinerant alchemists
tinkering with fire, bone and ash
clumsy hands
and unexpected emotions
have killed others
vessels filled with temptation
and a new leaf.

 

Warm and live

it settles for a moment

before the eyes and hands

find a rhythm.

 

The body is ballet

on orbit to the sun.

 

All mouths bow down

and stop their chants

while the seams

leap frog

one after another until

a cotton cord dimension

hisses and snaps.

 

Eyes applaud

and fast break to a space

between swish and transition.

 

Groans heard

as the moment twists into the flesh.

Upraised hands give glory

and joy dances with intensity

until the ball is touched again.

 

My hands ache as I tie their shoes

they lean upon my neck.

I cannot throw them off

nor carry them.

I am older now

but Sunday

is cross country wings

and measure nothing.

 

I listen to them laugh and breathe.

I hear my heart and theirs.

I am older now

their faces shiver

when I run

and suggest a nap

but my heart

wants to metronome a pace

that spaces out my life.

It surges up the hills

currents me like a river to the sea.

Though I am older now

I must have always run.

 

On Sunday afternoons

when grass and god are everywhere

I am a prayer between them

because I run

and I am young again.