breaded pieces
some days people said
the neglected deep fryer
that functioned as our altar
could birth the next renaissance
from its aluminum womb
even though its mechanical contractions
no longer felt what came out
and what poured in wasn’t worthy
of inadequate resurrection
we’d stand around it anyway
and applaud the basket
for what it served or didn’t
and the oil that obeyed the heat
wondering if the guided tour
would tell us if sculptures
were worthy of the praise
or if our applause would be mercifully lost
in the sterile halls
or buried in the tile with the adhesive
responsible for crippling
the sickening mass
long enough for a shared climax
as though it had a say
or we had a choice
in the prescribed performance and observance
in the eternal celebration of breaded pieces
that were baptized and discharged
through open holes
as though we recognized the
hollow fingers that still served
toothpicks tasked with moving
dying beasts
or that our mouths opened and shut
in unison with the tide of the oil
I never looked too long at the things that were made there
but sometimes I thought about
what must have been lost
in the needless build and dismantle
