Deep-Fried Demons

Misfortune oozes through the air

this chill and dreadful night in late October,
and it smells remarkably similar
to breaded chicken sizzling in the deep-frier.
Squatting on a stoop, I luxuriate blissfully 

in the irresistible odor of oily batter 
that wafts from the vents 
of the Cajun restaurant’s kitchen.

I can taste that crispy skin, can feel 
the hot grease trickle down my stubbly chin.

The sushi place across the street exudes 
no olfactory evidence

of the hand-rolled ghosts and quiet rice 
no doubt waiting patiently within. 
The flimsy paper lanterns in the window
seem chintzy and unambitious. 

By contrast, the chicken shack is boisterous 
and garishly lit, ejecting a crowd of patrons 
from its noisy gullet.

The chattering crowd staggers along the pavement 

like a brain-addled millipede. Flames flicker

within the revelers’ cupped palms,
lapping  at the tips of their cigarettes.
As they pass, I ask to bum a smoke 
and one of them taps a menthol from its pack,
holds the lighter steadier than I’d be able to. 

Leaves lie at my feet, little solar panels stripped 
and, having served their purpose, 
now find themselves laid off from the limbs 
where they’ve labored their entire lives.

The empty oxygen factories flash their skeletons 
in an attempt to frighten the sated patrons,

but the revelers remain laughing and oblivious, 
their heads swirling with spirits,

bodies lifted into the night, bellies fluttering
with a flock of tiny wings.