cursed again
another round
of boring ass fried chicken
universally bland
not one damn bottle
of hot sauce in sight
they’ve fried it that way
since nineteen and sixty-three
in a strip mall surrounded
by other strip malls
as sunday in the suburbs
goes on in that blasé
he has risen kinda way
vanilla candles hold hands
with east pittsburgh refrigerators
work an afternoon six pack
tip silver with pirates
on every flat-screen
every child locked in a device
sun through plate glass
leaves a little light on the bar
fighting through the dark
it’s a small victory
even if it’s not
damn, it feels
like winning for a change