a poem by Michele McDannold


The Raw Egg and Grits

the racial profiling in the kitchen is out of control
this manís voice transposes
the chords of Hunter S. Thompson
Itís the violinís strings wiggling
I feel Iíve had too much
or otherwise
inactive ingredients
he is not wise
I suspect he thinks he is
talking loud enough to take pride
in absurdity
if you listen carefully
in the cafť
you can hear the
catfish growing
you can hear the
1963 Ford
how it was
a Maroon that resembled
the letting go of a youth
you hear a groomed wisdom
sold over stories
well, some are true
and others are imagined so
something about keeping his coat shiny in Texas
and how he says Aaaa
knows everything
about something
talks from a napkin
like the blood meeting air comes out blue
the words dribble out the mouth, tastes of poetry
shades that collide and fight for room
he says
if the cook is Mexicano
he might understand the raw egg
even better
the black man
canít go wrong on the grits

Previously published in Outsider Writers (April 2007)

© Michele McDannold

 All poems © by their respective authors.   Otherwise, site content © 2008, 2009 by Jack T. Marlowe