... Applachia ..., ... Autumn ..., ... beauty ..., ... experimental ..., ... girl ..., ... humor ..., ... life ..., ... poem ..., ... poems ..., ... poetry ..., ... prose ..., ... relationships ..., ... the South ...

Yes smothered, but not scattered.

Like fresh meat
I wobble in from the cold
at the Waffle House.
Monster Mash plays
on the jukebox
on Thanksgiving night.

One couple stares me down
like a potential sale – I know
this because the realtor
just can’t dress normal.

“it was a graveyard smash!”

“Carolanne why in the heck did you
play this?”

“I hit the wrong buttons.
Plain and simple.”

Plain and simple, I find my seat,
remove my coat and arrange the
condiments. Salt. Pepper. Worcestershire.

That’s when the little one spots me.
Happens every time. And there’s
always a little one. With a name like
Mindy. Mandy. Tammy. Kim.

“Kim” the tag reads. This one’s
a Kim. Here she comes a-gigglin’.
Dirty blonde ponytail already
high-steppin’.

“What can I get ya honey?”

“Well I’d like …”

“Do you know who you look like?”

“Well I’ve been ….”

“Brad Pitt” (pronounced peeeyett)
“Oh my God Carolanne don’t he
look just like Brad Peeeyett?”

Next, I play the same move,
every time.

“Yes ma’am, he sure does favor me.”

– wait for it –

Kim, or Tammy, or Mindy – and the greasy cook Carolanne, all, always
burst into laughter, let loose a
little inner “Keesha gettin her hur did”, and bounce around like
peaches clinging to a branch.

“Well what can I get you…. Mr. Peeeyett?”

My orders always the same, and I always play the same game and still wonder why I’m surprised when gigglin’ Kim messes up my hash
browns, again.

“Yes smothered, but not scattered.”

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