Guy Fieri was proof Americans
were a rash and unholy people,
but something in the cruising,
the barnstorming, the bottomless hunger
of so many diners dived and devoured
made the smoke of belly fire lustrous song.
Come with me, platinum-blonde chortled,
and if you could believe that beef-steak,
you could see the sun-bloodied plains
for the tables they were,
the feasts hosted in the holes of ourselves,
the hamburger finally coming like absolution.
We know we belong to this grease-land
and lacquered mouth,
the edge of dream when gut-sated,
how our bellies put us down to sleep
Scott Neuffer is a writer from Nevada. Follow him on Twitter @scottneuffer.
Categories: Guy Fieri