Making Funnelcakes

Heat rises all around
The thatched thawing hut with straw-shingled roofing--
A self-contained oven of Warm bodies, Dried sweat, Cracked bare feet covered in caked dirt
Scraped and scoured pots and pans dangle from the musky-smell of earthen walls,
Fresh odors of cow dung mix with the moist freshness of an evening barrage
And earthen jars of crisp clean water shiver in the heat
The magic man rubs his cracked sullen palms together, stretching wrinkled arms to catch the youthful crackles and slivers of flames,


Stiff joints jerk with joy,
As fluid motions return,
With deft swiftness, mounds of flour disintegrate into drippy
runny mush,
Slipping, sliding through sure palms,
Resisting the grooves of cracked, broken texture.
A dash of flour and
The splashes and splurts of mush fall in shifting shapes,
Half-sticky patterns of dough floating in oily wonder,
Sploosh, spittle, spush.
The oil of odious audacity
Spits in the magician's face but
He gazes, in awe and wonder
At the perfect whirling curling
loops of sworling delight.
As his hands grow old once more,
He smiles in youthful joy,
At the marvelous miracle of a
Perfectly-made funnelcake.