We wait.
Engines idling
in queue.
Anticipating
crispy-fried
chicken
in boxes
of six, eight, and twelve
with tiny cups
of sticky dipping sauce
served
with an ice-cold
beverage.
Why?
Did you like this poem. Check out Lament for the Flaming Chickens.
All writing, unless otherwise noted, is written and owned by Kevin L. McDaniel © 2023
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