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Jim Daniels

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by this poet

An average joe comes in
and orders thirty cheeseburgers and thirty fries.

I wait for him to pay before I start cooking.
He pays.
He ain't no average joe.

The grill is just big enough for ten rows of three.
I slap the burgers down
throw two buckets of fries in the deep frier
and they pop pop, spit spit. . .
She danced in front of the window, 
snowflakes glowing behind her 
under the streetlight. The blue silk blouse
slipped off her arms and floated out of sight. 
Black slacks into a shadow, then 
the quick shiver, the beautiful awkward gesture 
into nakedness. Her skin startled me--
luminous or pale, depending. We