Breakfast at Chicken Shack

Bet I know what he’s thinking about.

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Wanted: Frycook.

What’s it mean to be a frycook?
Jesus was probably the best—
no sweat, no stain upon his apron
(as far as we can tell) yet
he fed the masses loaves and fishes. That’s high volume.
But Jesus missed out on the macho end,
the bandannas and amphetamines,
the swollen forearms and biceps from baskets loaded down
with hushpuppies and french fries, soft-shell crabs
dropped an arm’s length above hot peanut oil
so claws and legs would curl life-like as a Myrtle Beach ceramic ashtray.
Perfect.
Jesus also looks good in porcelain.
Jesus never got to see a waitress shoot a stare across a busy kitchen:
flat out I want you or You’re cute, why don’t we maybe—
Don’t be shocked.
A frycook sees raw sex all day:
ash straining for release at the end of a dangled cigarette,
delicate veins laced through white flesh when it flakes from fish bones,
the basket heaves from hot grease as if a husband had shown up early,
and yes,
a basket flung across the kitchen or slammed on a stainless steel table
when the frycook doesn’t get his way.
Maybe Jesus poached those fish, served them cold.

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