Our Hands Are Tied

I helped a man
named Steve McKinney
With his groceries
outside Pay Less.
He was in a motorized wheel chair
And told me he weighed two-eighty.
He didn’t.
I’m a professional chef
and I’ve worked with the past three presidents
And Oprah is coming to do
a special with me
And I’ve got a couple cookbooks on the way, he said.
That’s exciting, I said.
Thank you.

I drove away and it all
Sunk in, a kid’s
Toy boat filling up with water in the bath tub.
He’s full of shit, I said.
He’s a fat fuck
And a liar and
Professional chefs don’t
live in Anderson
or shop at Payless
or need help with their
groceries.
And that guy sure as goddmann hell doesn’t know anyone named Oprah. 
I was mad at him
for his oblivion and
felt sad for his wife
when i realized that when you
weigh four hundred pounds
there’s no room for anyone to
share your dreams
no matter how big they are.
He’s a fat fuck and I’m as much
of a professional chef as he is.

A few days later I knew
that Steve McKinney was
trying out a new marzipan
or thinking about which pesto he would
should Oprah first. 
and I was sitting on my porch
smoking cigarettes not
thinking about anything. 
I’m as much
of a chef as you, I said.
And I’m as much of
a fat fuck too.
And you’re not writing poems about it.