Sonnet: Deep-Fried Fat F*ck Blues
by John Kendall Hawkins
It's time to wake up and smell the sonnets --
little sugary grease-boiled somethings,
8-4-2s with rhythm dressed in bonnets,
Stooges and Marxes and Dali dumb rings.
Somewhere south of the Mason-Dixon line
we grumbled, groused, on our way to cut cane
in Belle Glade with rastas we knew from Maine;
Marley playing, my hand on Kate's behind.
Bobby T was singing his donut song --
one hand on the wheel, reef in the other.
Apples to cane, I was thinking, seems wrong;
locked with Kate in the back in a smother.
A cop mistook us for Easy Rider
in South Bay. Leave, he drawled. Donut spider.