Greasy Chicken (Poem for True)

Every time we eat
greasy chicken,
as soon as the delivery guy
walks up to the door
with his oversized, insulated
delivery bag,
repeating the price and holding out
the chicken in exchange for won,
I smell it and suddenly
I am in the recovery room of the hospital,
holding you in my arms,
reliving your birth, eating delivery
chicken in that sorry excuse for a bed.
With every bite pinched
between metal chopsticks,
greasing my lips as it enters my mouth,
I sigh contentedly and think about
that day, that week, that year…
when you were born.