When bacon bits like little brown comets fall, when jalapeños add their green remark, when ranch and sriracha heed the call— you are no side dish. You become the park where happiness runs wild and off the leash.
So let the truffle oil poets sneer and write of arugula and foam. I’ll take this fight. For when the world has cracked its every bone, and all the grand cathedrals stand alone, give me a basket, crooked and too hot, where cheese and potato prove what we forgot: that joy is not a concept, but a bite— and heaven, if it’s wise, serves fries all night. ode to cheese fries
How do I love your first resist, the snap, the steam that rises like a grateful ghost, then all at once the molten, salty map of cheddar, provolone—the ultimate host? When bacon bits like little brown comets fall,
Late night, you arrive in a paper boat, a Styrofoam sea, a foil-wrapped ark. The bar is loud. The lost are still afloat. You are the lantern glowing in the dark. I’ll take this fight