Forthrightly, I could not risk missing
another flight home from ATL after
the unofficial pride weekend so I made
my cheeks clap clutch as a tucked BBC
until boarding time. Every fasting bottom
gets hungry after deep south dick. Those
pounds of candied yams and fatback
collards that didn’t stick to my bones made
my bowels fleet like a draining pot
of macaroni. I got on the plane timely,
carryon strapped, with Group C while a first
flight eye witness steward was fracturing ice
with a coke bottle. We’ve all interrupted
that religion with the imminent career
question, “Where’s the bathroom?” That Butch
Queen’s dagger eyes drew, voice rumbled:
“To the left. Hurry-up. We can’t take off
until you’re out.” I know enough not to
drop a bomb before the flight takes off.
But I dropped one anyway. Yes, and flushed two
times to signify I was not shitting around
with anyone’s ego. I synchronized
my hands in soapy water like a Pentecostal
preacher before communion, left the lid up
and shantey-sashayed to my first class seat
so all but me could smell my Soul Food cooking.
