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Dinner At Amy Ruth's

In the hunger of a layover storm on the cliff of March,
I had dinner at Amy Ruth’s up in Harlem on West 116th Street
to celebrate a poet going to college in Mass.,
Every entrée on the sticky tri-fold menu
was named after a famous African American,
and everyone got theirs barbequed, smothered, or baked in fat.
Dipping my fried okra lumps in a chunky white sauce
I thought of the whine culture
of America—  good samaritanism enforceable by laws
(because altruism is for cowards).
Uncle Sam, that old bastard who has been around
since America went after Canadian land in 1812
forever pointing at you, me, everyone besides himself.
My friends, mood lightened by sticky corn bread on their lips,
laughed at the dish called baked Barack Obama—
deep fried chicken drowned in honey.
(Blame the President for your acid reflex
or sour stomache!)
I’d imagine that people come here to unload,
be faultless for once;
tell the waitress the Reverend Al Sharpton tastes bland,
and Al Roker is overcooked, hard on the mouth.
To come heavy
and leave light onto broken bottle sidewalks,
towards rain shower traffics on the Malcolm X Boulevard—
that was my black experience.

30 Aug 10

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pretty good, makes me hungry..
 — manuka

amazing last stanza.

love all the detail of the food and all the food metaphors

would you consider dropping lots of the commas of the last stanza?
 — JaneyJane

^ noted, and thanks. :)
 — Sequiturist

I love the analogy, haha.
 — unknown