How the phalanges of birds
stand out when you consider
the weep, the fracas, the last
allowable notion in that pretty
little head about the proper
course for eggs, cheese, two
ounces of ghost chili. How
no matter the number of martyrs
in your lungs you can always
find room to draw in enough
for a fit of hacking. How you
have never been sure Hungary
exists, never will be until you
see Veszprém with your own
eyes, have tea with Viktor Orban
on a hill overlooking the Balaton.
One more chance, you tell your
frying pan, one more chance
to make the perfect chilaquiles
or it’s out the door you go.