He pulls the basket from the fryer
and slides the wings into a stainless steel bowl
into which he has poured a generous amount of sauce
that is a sweet and burnt orange.
There are five, six, seven people working in a space
the size of two single beds placed end to end,
each working at a pace that, multiplied by the hours of a shift
must certainly be impossible.
Everyone has the sweet burnt orange on them
and the grease that is hugely at its boil, on their aprons and skin,
each has a particular task known to her or him alone
in the particular moment that she or he is performing it.
He tosses the wings with expert motion,
they gain more height than ever they could have in life
(as on a farm somewhere thousands of chickens
run frantic and wingless).
On this side of the counter people name their pleasures,
lovers of chickens all
who gaze at the menu board overhead,
its list of chicken wings in every conceivable pose
plus a soup of the day, made of chicken,
and a couple of salads for someone’s sister-in-law
who clucks at the mere suggestion of carrying out from this place,
the amount of fat in just one of those things.
Meanwhile at the register a man with misshapen jaw
rings up an order as on the phone
he discusses how many gallons
of sauce and how many dozens of chicken wings
and behind him the fry man lowers another winged basket
and the 5 or 6 or 7 people shift past one another
so fully engaged in their each moment’s labors
as to have found their place of contentment.