Chicken Fried Loneliness

She wouldn’t let me watch her tv,

and she wouldn’t wake me up before work.

She decided to take the morning off, and didn’t care

that I hadn’t left. “Show up on time, double

your money.” The words echoed in my head.

They aint seen nothing yet I told the guy

behind the counter of the bodega, paying

for my ninety-nine cent Arizona iced tea.

He didn’t sell loose cigarettes and didn’t

listen to the same radio stations I did.

I feel like a freak in this neighborhood.

The poem was supposed to happen in three

Parts: man wakes up, man goes to work,

man comes home. Year after year, three acts.

Most of the time we think that the table

legs are strong, and no matter how big the

meal is, or how old the table is, the pot au feu

and the double bacon burgers should be fine.

Should be.

She wouldn’t let me watch her tv because

It was stuck on the food network.

She was hungry and didn’t want to be reminded,

Of the tragedy in the kitchen, the grease fountain

in the driveway. Suburban tragedy in three acts.

The letters came in for weeks. The bags

were heavy with condolences from Akron,

and Iowa, and Manhattan, and Harlem, and Spanish

Harlem, and parts of Pennsylvania so dry

that the tree branches crumble at dusk, before anyone

can wake up to see them.

We were getting five, six bags a day for the first

few weeks, until it tapered off to junk food and

fast forwards, one small envelope a month after

a while. And then after even longer, we boarded

up the mailbox and spray painted NO COPPER

on the front door. Left all the lights on and went

to see who was tending bar down the street tonight,

One of the more beautiful nights we’ve had in a while.

New York in September.