Sunday, April 6, 2014


There used to be
a million of em--
cheap Cuban/Chinese joints
in Chelsea,
not too far
from my pad.
The chicken was cut
in small pieces
& deep fried
on the bone
until the skin
gleamed and crunched
when you bit into
its moist white flesh.
You might want to
put a little salt & pepper on it,
or squirt some fresh lemon over it,
but you really didn't need to do nothin
except eat it,
each bite complimented
by the rich yellow rice
& fragrantly sweet black beans
kicked into gear
by their best friend, Tabasco.

The whole deal: $6.95.
You could have a couple of beers
with it
and cafe con leche
after it--
and if you felt like treatin yourself royally,
a little flan
caressing your mouth
and your stomach
like lovers
who knew
where the bones
were buried.

You had to push yourself
away from the table
but not before opening
each other's fortune cookie;
if it was somewhat serious you Oud&Ahd
if it was sexy you looked into the eyes
of your lover playfully
and smiled then walked back out into the world
of horrors and madness
you left only a few hours ago
with your lady--the one you've known
for ten years
or ten minutes
--on your arm
and lit a smoke.
There is a calmness about you.
Your words come out easy...
Pretty good, huh?
you say.
She doesn't say anything,
and doesn't have to; she
just squeezes your upper arm
while bringing it closer
to her breast
and keeps it there;
it feels like heaven's pillow
and you walk
a shuffle really,
a King
despite yourself,
and nothing
for a little while
is going to come between
you, your Queen,
or your Kingdom.

Norman Savage
Greenwich Village, 2014

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