Ode — To Cheese Fries

Go, little ode, and find the greasy spoon, the dive bar’s corner, and the dorm at noon. Whisper to every hungry soul this truth: You are not lost. You are just cheese-fry-proof.

How do I love your first resist, the snap, the steam that rises like a grateful ghost, then all at once the molten, salty map of cheddar, provolone—the ultimate host? ode to cheese fries

Late night, you arrive in a paper boat, a Styrofoam sea, a foil-wrapped ark. The bar is loud. The lost are still afloat. You are the lantern glowing in the dark. Go, little ode, and find the greasy spoon,

Pale imitations wilt beneath a lamp— the frozen kind, the nacho cheese in jars. But you, true fries, refuse to be a stamp. You are the moon’s own comfort, and the stars’ forgotten cousin, served at 2 A.M. to those who’ve danced too hard or loved too slim. How do I love your first resist, the

O golden nest of crisp and slender suns, cut from the earth’s own russet, buried light, then baptized in the furious, hissing plunge of oil that grants you armor, day-bright.

No fork nor knife approaches your domain. Only fingers, reckless, burn the eager skin. To lift a single, dripping, tangled chain is to commit a delicious, greasy sin.