WAVY GRAVY

BY JAI

I like gravy with my biscuits.
Early in the morning,
which should be 3 AM at night
at the getting biscuit spot.
The fabled old pancake place on Powell,
where all the wild things go
to sup and slather gaining sustenance
for the coming of the new day.
Double-baked potatoes — russets are best,
roasted garlic, fragrant basil,
and enough salt to float your boat.
Tangy white gravy with
sweet spicy sausage, smooth not runny,
thick enough to choke a goat.
Country-style over biscuits, warm and fresh,
blistered butter bliss.
Made with driven persistence and hangover,
from the mid-days drunk.
A dash of strong chicken stock in the batter
to make ‘em hum and sing.
With slabs of bacon, almost burnt, on the side.
Things that bring a short cook
personal pride, in levels of legendary accolades.
A meal set for long running
crooks, fresh off the steal. Made in mind for
all the quickest foxes,
who have no pimps. A table set for tweekers
and drunks, starving for affection,
still bleeding. The mad man in the office manages
just barely to keep it all
in line, so that the 3 AM deep nights denizens
might find some humanity.
Sharing a space, eating a meal, and agreeing to
the primacy of human need.
Some semblance of a community, to justify living.
Even the half-hearted sleeper,
who has nearly nodded into his huevos rancheros,
has a place, with order he will never eat.
I like biscuits with my gravy, but only here and now,
in this place, where everything is wavy. | JM

JAI WRITES FROM OSP. HE IS A CONSTANT GARDENER.