Machete

How high were you that ancient night

You stumbled into the Burger King

And demanded a large order of French fries?

The clerk knew your natty dreads, your face

With all its naiveté and confusion,

Knew you well enough to call you a regular

And know you were always hustling, so

He probably wasn’t flabbergasted when

You pulled out those empty pockets

From those droopy gangster jeans, said,

“Come on now, brother, help me out”

And flashed that dopy golden grille.

But when you pulled out that machete,

That brush-chopping, pineapple lopping monster,

He got suddenly very silent, somewhat sad.

“I’m sorry, but I won’t give you the money,” he said,

And you knew through your Robitussin haze

That this stupid boy would die for whatever

Tiny amount of change was in the register, so

You settled for those salty, glorious fries,

Held them aloft as if you’d won a marathon,

And ran into the heavy, humid Tulsa night,

Already forgetting what you’d meant to do,

If—that is—you ever even knew.