The Fry Cook Poem by Luscious Larry
The Fry Cook
Rating: ★5.0
Once when I was
at the restaurant
cooking and frying
chicken in that
basket thing just
watching the
bubbling oil 400
degrees the
fowl legs and arms and breasts
moving under the
golden rumbles.
Burnt again,
I was thinking of
you and your
white delicate hands.
POET'S NOTES ABOUT THE POEM
I cooked for a living when I didn't have a match to pay the rent. I drank a lot back then. Still do. I'm from Greece.
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4/20/2024 12:45:34 AM # 1.0.0.1119
i think your photo looks like a famous Comanche chief in the Old West. are some of your ancestors native americans? ? ? my wife says she thinks you were thinking of chicken hands when you burned yourself. i don't think so.