The big woman ate a bucket of fried chicken,
naked on a yellow sofa, stained by sweat,
grease, and apologies.
Most of the day, she could be considered
the subject of a still life;
Talk Shows and Home Shopping— lighting her
like a bowl of peeled peaches on a kitchen sill.
But right now, chewing on the Colonel;
Stretching skin and fat from sinew and bone—
She is the Kentucky Derby
and she is wearing that bonnet just for you.
Perfume like roses glazed in honey barbeque.
Come on up. Place your bet. She’s at the gate.
I’ve got 6 to 1 odds on Fat Chance Cinnamon.
After all, she comes from a long line of mudders
and it’s been raining— where she is— all day.