Poetry By John Burke

Joseph Gage CC



Ode to a Buttered Roll, Consumed at a Texas Roadhouse in a State of Fervor

I’ve been told that you are worse for the human body than heroin
but I have eaten much of both and can confirm this to only be partially true.

You have arrived in a red plastic basket, tossed like a paper airplane 
by our waitress Deb, who did not have a gun tucked into her waistband 
merely a pad of paper for our orders, and I can tell you what she writes there 
is only a formality, because I have come here for one reason--
                                                                       I have come here for you.

You, of the zero nutritional value. You, of the butterbeard, 
that cinnamon goop which is surely just cake frosting. 
It will never cease to amaze me that you are ferried 
free of charge to the copy-paper placemats 
of a thousand liplicking strangers, all of them clutching 
their joyous paunches in wet, anticipatory palms. 

They shake those bellies with the violence of oxytocin.  
They shake them in preparation for the labors they must perform. 
You will be soaring down a thousand gullets tonight 
and children will rip you to shreds with their unbelievably 
tiny fingers, their nails so comically small I can’t help but laugh 
because what purpose could they possibly serve? 
They are wrenching on crayons and drawing
in places where they were never intended to draw.

I remember when we were encouraged to throw peanut shells on 
the fucking floor of this place. They wanted us to become animals again. 
And we did. We covered ourselves in mud. We became trough-fed. 
I believe we should return there once more. Allow us to become piggies

allow us to become elephants. 
Grant us permission to rollick in mud and flap our big ears 
like oversized American flags outside of car dealerships 
as we speak unspeakable elephant words 
in our secret elephant tongues. We will wrap our trunks 
around our young. We will hurl them into the sky. Listen 
for the calf’s chirp of laughter as she reaches the apex of flight 
before landing softly in her booster seat, begging us to 
do it again please just one more time.

You, white bread, are the mud of nothing-vitamins, and while I am sure 
you are some slow form of poison, you are no heroin. 
When I ate heroin, I did so alone in the back of a $400 Honda Accord 
or lying on the itchy carpet of an unfurnished apartment in West Palm  

but here, I am just one of a thousand rumbling bellies, basking 
in this abomination of what is now considered country music seated 
in bench seats our guts are folded into smiles red cheeked yellow toothy grins
spinach wedged in them fucking joyous they are. Here, I am chubby of soul. 
I am unable to speak as my mouth is so full, but if I could, I would sing 
for this room full of strangers as we eat the happy plaque 
of a thousand clogging arteries, all feeding one 
beating heart.

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​John Burke is a butcher based out of New Hampshire who holds a BA in English and Creative Writing and is currently a graduate student at Salem State University. His work has been featured in The Sandy River Review, Writ Magazine and Incessant Pipe.