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. . .
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poet
Jim Daniels
by this poet
poem
1985
poem
2002
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