Fried Beauty
Glory be to God for breaded things—
Catfish, steak finger, pork chop, chicken thigh,
Sliced green tomatoes, pots full to the brim
With french fries, fritters, life-float onion rings,
Hushpuppies, okra golden to the eye,
That in all oils, corn or canola, swim
Toward mastication's maw (O molared mouth!);
Whatever browns, is dumped to drain and dry
On paper towels' sleek translucent scrim,
These greasy, battered bounties of the South:
Eat them.
Oh, how I want some fried okra!
2 comments:
I like this much. Reminds me of something a Boston-area poet did with "Batter my heart, three-personed God."
My Best friend beside me says "that's so awesome!"
I like it, too.
--some guy on the street
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