Ode To Cheese: Fries

When bacon bits like little brown comets fall, when jalapeños add their green remark, when ranch and sriracha heed the call— you are no side dish. You become the park where happiness runs wild and off the leash.

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. 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. When bacon bits like little brown comets fall,

You are not mere potato, nor mere curd, but a truce declared between two hungry lands. The fry, a soldier; cheese, a gentle herd— combined by grace of unforgiving hands. Whisper to every hungry soul this truth: You are not lost

So let the truffle oil poets sneer and write of arugula and foam. I’ll take this fight. For when the world has cracked its every bone, and all the grand cathedrals stand alone, give me a basket, crooked and too hot, where cheese and potato prove what we forgot: that joy is not a concept, but a bite— and heaven, if it’s wise, serves fries all night.

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.