Ode to My Husband’s Darkly Fried Chicken

My heart sinks, and a weary numbness comes
My sense, what a mess he will make,
Of both dinner and of kitchen,
His words are forceful, “I will make fried chicken,”
Oblige must I, for he is man who has captured my heart


O for a drink of vintage wine, as man enters my domain,
“I’ll start at 4,” now 30 minutes late,
He struggles, separating wings from breasts
I hover not knowing, offer help or ignore?
Man against bird, a struggle for pride
A woman hopes for appetizing results
Children wonder, “What’s that smoke?”

Angry exclamation “Oh, feverish fat!”
Bird in hell, golden skin obscured
Consort consoles, then walks away
into fiery mist to disarm impending alarm
Eyes avert growing chaos;
An uneasy mind, quelled with wine

Two revolutions of clock, pile of pink wings remain
sizzle at last; inferno of mess
hectic confluence of elements
Shouts to clean hands
Eager eyes await their fate,
as does a man’s ego

Ravenous offspring ask for seconds
Wife impressed, still ignoring the mess
Man’s mind at ease, and resolution made:
“I will return; next time with golden results.”