Hot Soup

It’s good like gold teeth in the mouth of my manager
barking orders over the headset in the drive through,
comforting only because we’re tired and ready
to throw hands instead of sandwiches at the customers
who snivel over a two for two, and at least that twenty-four
karat set of dentures shine like a Florida summer
afternoon and beat ear drums like John Bonham
on a bender in late June. It’s hot like Daniel Caesar
in the bedroom of sneaky late night link after you
and the girlies get back from the bar that sells screwdrivers
for twelve dollars a pop, and he’s hung and he’s handsome
and he’s all yours until the clock reads two.
Usually, I like mine seasoned like an old high school track
coach who wears his socks to his ankles, his Adidas
sweats to the navel and is looking to make good athletes
great and take great athletes to the moon,
but if you’ve got a styrofoam cup and a plastic spoon,
I’ll eat whatever you ladle out of a pot,
even if it’s as subpar as the old lady’s noodle bake
who lives at the back of the neighborhood. Miss me
with that sand dune you call a cobbler, that vase of dirt colored
majoon—I want something dripping from my pores
at the bus stop, fire orange on my tongue with a taste
like maroon, something that feels like
it’s seven o’clock and my clothes are hanging off
chairs, festooned like twigs in a birds nest, looking
for love and in the mood. I don’t want anything deep
fried and god forbid I get it frozen—I want that hug
from the inside, that kiss on my stomach lining. I
want a fat bowl of quicksilver, something good on my
gullet, please, God, whip me up a deep lake of hot soup.

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Parker Logan (@ParkerLogan13) is an MFA student at Louisiana State University. He is studying creative writing. Originally from Orlando, Florida, he has a BA from Florida State University. He currently lives in Baton Rouge, Louisiana, where he reads, writes, and gardens with his friends.