Grease Spot

The window's open, just a slit.

And then it hits, that awful scent,

fried chicken, cheap and rich,

like a betrayal, heaven-sent.

My stomach clenches, a low moan,

a primitive, disgusting plea.

I try to work, to be alone,

but all I taste is what could be.

That golden skin, that salty grease,

the way it crinkles, hot and fine.

My careful plans for inner peace

dissolve into a hungry whine.

I pull myself back from the pane,

but the air is thick, a heavy cloak.

Productivity? Just a pain.

A simple hunger, brutally woke.