Whitaker

Underneath flyover at the end of Southside Blvd

How am I supposed to unpack my brain

When there are new terrains of stubble

To stumble through?

Foreheads speck with glistening confetti,

A reward for work's unairconditioned quirks

Inside the bubbling of a can's Tecate.

How do you know the things you know?

How did tongs and flame find your tattooed frame?

How did you find yourself in a band

Of tank tops and gloved hands,

A member of the culinary punk brigand?

I imagine the same way the apron strings found me-