Poetry Drawer: Tertiary Privilege: Eating Chicken Bones And Broth With An Old Gypsy Voodoo Woman Outside Of Shreveport: Rule Number One – Location by R. Gerry Fabian

Tertiary Privilege

It is a marvellous Memphis evening
and as I get on the trolley,
I catch an immediate glimpse of her.
While I deposit my money,
I find her fixing breakfast
with those soft blue eyes shining.
During the day, I call
just to her the lilt in her voice.
At supper,
I envy the lettuce
that feels the taste
of her soft lips and wet tongue.
I lie in bed
awaiting her gentle slide into bed
nuzzling her silken skin next to mine.

The trolley jerks to a start.
She is in her middle twenties
and as I am approaching social security.
The best I can do is smile
and sit across form her
hoping a breeze
will carry a breath of her perfume
at least
until her stop.

Eating Chicken Bones And Broth
With An Old Gypsy Voodoo Woman
Outside Of Shreveport

She pulls the carcass
out of the boiling water
placing it on a plate filled
with herbs, spices and root powders.
Breaking off a steaming rib bone
with her wrinkled thumb and forefinger,
she fries with, in a herb based olive oil.
Eat this for fortitude.
Using razor sharp shears,
she cuts the shoulder blade apart
and grinds it into a damp powder.
Dumping it into a pan of boiling water
which contains three magical ground roots,
she pours it into a blue metal cup.
Drink this for humility.
Using wooden tongs, she extracts
a bare chicken wing from the broth.
This she mashes into a paste
and spreads it across
a slice of French bread.
Chew this for moments of indecision.
Finally, she strains the remaining stock
through a metal mesh
and then again
through old cheesecloth
into a chipped ceramic bowl.
Into the bowl, she sprinkles five love herbs:
lavender, basil, rosemary, hibiscus and patchouli.
This she pours into a pint bottle and corks it.
Sip this and kiss your intended lover.
The depth of love will be revealed.

Rule Number One – Location

She likes to make breakfast
for poor people.
Even before the rooster,
she’s up
collecting, banging and frying.

When it’s all done
she drives to the station
and sets up her booth.

The poor people hate her.
The food is overcooked
and usually on the cold side.

She’s a braggart and a gossip.
A big hand-lettered sign
informs – NO CREDIT.

Still her prices are cheap
and she does well.

More poems by R. Gerry Fabian on Ink Pantry

R. Gerry Fabian is a retired English instructor. He has been publishing poetry since 1972 in various poetry magazines. He is the editor of Raw Dog Press. He has published two poetry books, Parallels and Coming Out Of The Atlantic. His novels, Memphis MasqueradeGetting Lucky (The Story) and Seventh Sense are available from Amazon, Apple Books, Barnes and Noble. He is currently working on his fourth novel, Ghost Girl.

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