men toss split logs in the pit,
fire and smoke and sparks,
forks, slicers, and knives
at the barbeque joint,
the ancient desire
for fire in the night
the man at the register
pickles, slaw,
and piece of a pie
fries, ham and beef sandwiches
sausages, short ends, long ends, chicken—
quarter and half
customers in worn boots, neckties,
exurb voyeurs, families,
tourists, and executives
meat piled high,
drowned in sauce,
swallowed in minutes
we stretch bellies taut
eat until our eyes roll back—
surely this is prosperity
