Who would have thought
that the simple act
of scraping a roasted pig’s back
with a fork
would bring such joy
to me
and so many others…

O pork
it is for you I sing
when I see you coupled with
your perfect partner
of fried potato
my eyes fill with tears
and the heavens are shining
and filled with the hearty laughs
of deep fried wingless angels

Lest I forget
the leaves of my summer dreams
when I wake in my dirty lodgings
and it is not morning
nor is it night
burning like hot embers on my retinas
I scream leaves, leaves,
A bunch of thee next to my wedges please

o please

o please sweet leaves

I close this confession
with a simple image
a simple plea
to all those heathens
leaving sullen in the dark
dark of this restaurant
with downcast eyes

I approach your table
and like a hideous stain
left on a marital bed
I see golden wedges
and strings of pig
and even a dry leaf or two
and I am filled
so full
I am brimming
with a terrible rage

and blood seeps from my ears
and my veins pump my hate
about my body like a poison
all I can howl is


But alas
I collect myself
I collect the meagre tip
and I bid you goodnight.