Friteday

A big sky morning stretches across Portland, 
that kind that draws locals and tourists alike 
to stream out of Airbnbs and hotels and cottages
and take to the streets, to browse and munch en plein air. 

After a long walk to the beach and back, nourishment calls.
A week into feasting our way through Maine's coastline, 
I still hunger for more, to embody the taste of this place, 
a traveler's communion.

An alchemist, I will convert molecules of field and sea 
into fresh red blood cells; I'll remyelinate tired neurons.

I stand in line, place an early order at Duck Fat Shack.
What better way to build my future infrastructure 
than through a flute of hot frites on main street?

In exchange for twenty-four dollars, thirty cents, 
I accept a large order of ruddy chips and five compostable fluted cups 
brimming with with "local farm egg" mayonnaise dippers: 
garlic, thai chili, curry, horseradish.

A torch-bearer in the Olympics, I hoist paper cone aloft.
Embodying the Nation of Potatoes, 
I traverse the street, join my dining companions.
The ones who'd bought fish and chips from Lil' Chippy.

Which spud staple reigns supreme?
We discover together, wide mouths gulping for 
hot fries and summer freedom.