A little more to the left please

I roast the chicken wings
Cutting up the chipotle
And filtering out the adobo
My beer fogs my glass
As I pour it
And flip the wings
I get the butter and olive oil
Hot and bubbling
It bubbles, popping
In time with the singer
As I add the spices, the honey
The lemon zest and juice
The salt feeling the flakes
Drop through my fingers
Flat and crystalline
Once from the oceans
Off of a bay in some small town in France
Dried in the sun
And gathered by a man
In handmade wooden clogs
The sauce bubbles burning my lungs
And making me cough
The wings are done
And fall cascading
Into a stainless bowl
And sliding around
As the sauce slides
Hot and sticky
Around each little wing
Filling the house
With a sweet and sticky smell.
then we fall on them
A horde dropping in
And tearing at them
Blissfully burning
Like celebrants walking
On hot coals we
Relish the gentle sensation
Of burning
In our throats as we
Eat them forced to go
One by one even while
Feeling impatient
To get to the next one
Even as you've only taken
Your first bite.