Cooking and Entering

I don’t think even dream me knew why I needed to eat so badly.


The thing about making food

In someone else’s house is that

You don’t want to dirty many dishes -

You never know when they’ll come home,

What they’ll notice in the wrong place.

So I make soup, a single pot to wash out well

At the end, and pour it into tiny Dixie cups,

Single-servings of takeout.


I don’t know my cousin’s actual taste in girls, but in my dreams he goes for blondes on Greyhound buses.


She’s pretty,

The girl my cousin keeps

Flirting with on the bus,

Each new bing on a phone

A sext between them.

But she’s a sour sort of pretty,

The kind that makes you turn

Your own nose up, too.

“She’s from an awful home,

Though,” my cousin says,

And when the bus pulls up

To a ramshackle house

Down a driveway of scattered,

Broken shells, I see he’s right.

I wouldn’t wish the father

Who steps out to greet her

On anyone.

It Doesn’t Get Better Than Free Food

Apparently I was hungry last night.


They host a free

Chicken tasting

Outside the event -

Honey-roasted, barbecue,

Thai-seasoned, free-range,

Tiny pieces to be picked up

With toothpicks and tried.

I make my way around the table,

A roulette wheel where

Every option is good, though

The barbecue is a little bitter.