Ode To Cheese — Fries

So let the truffle oil poets sneer and write of arugula and foam. I’ll take this fight. For when the world has cracked its every bone, and all the grand cathedrals stand alone, give me a basket, crooked and too hot, where cheese and potato prove what we forgot: that joy is not a concept, but a bite— and heaven, if it’s wise, serves fries all night.

Late night, you arrive in a paper boat, a Styrofoam sea, a foil-wrapped ark. The bar is loud. The lost are still afloat. You are the lantern glowing in the dark. ode to cheese fries

You are not mere potato, nor mere curd, but a truce declared between two hungry lands. The fry, a soldier; cheese, a gentle herd— combined by grace of unforgiving hands. So let the truffle oil poets sneer and

Go, little ode, and find the greasy spoon, the dive bar’s corner, and the dorm at noon. Whisper to every hungry soul this truth: You are not lost. You are just cheese-fry-proof. Late night, you arrive in a paper boat,

No fork nor knife approaches your domain. Only fingers, reckless, burn the eager skin. To lift a single, dripping, tangled chain is to commit a delicious, greasy sin.

How do I love your first resist, the snap, the steam that rises like a grateful ghost, then all at once the molten, salty map of cheddar, provolone—the ultimate host?