We could eat as much
as we wanted—not
on the job but afterward.
It wasn’t stealing, it was free.
The idea was that before long
we’d be sick of the crisp chicken
in its coat of grease.
And it worked—at first
I took home buckets-full
but later I could barely stand
to look at all those plumped-up
breasts and legs, the French fries
and the onion rings.
Mostly I was at the front
ringing up the orders,
counting change. Sometimes
I helped in back
pushing bird-bits into bags.
When the dining room was empty
Fred sent me out in my short skirt
to wipe the tables,
sweep the floor.
My legs were good
for business, Fred said.
Sometimes a lone male
came in then to ask for wings.
most recent chapbook is It Isn’t That They Mean to Kill You (Arroyo Seco Press, 2018). Her poems have been published in Natural Bridge, Permafrost, Pearl, The Rise Up Review, The Sow’s Ear Poetry Review, The Ekphrastic Review, Verse-Virtual, The Missouri Review, and other literary journals, as well as in a number of anthologies. She lives in Southern California.
