— Jake Adam York

I kept a load of shoulder sandwiches
and Circle Pork sausage deep in my rig
cause Penny wanted me to keep
the taste of home fresh on my lips,
the hickory strong on my tongue,
in my nose — so you can follow smoke home.
But halfway back from California,
every bit was gone.
I made Helotes empty,
then lay half asleep at the Flying J
till the smoke washed all around.
Just downhill, in his Steer-B-Q,
Eli Cook forked brisket, ribs,
and mesquite-sweet beef tacos vaqueros—
like me, a Memphis son, stalled here
years ago, happy to ease a brother’s luck,
but he hadn’t cooked a pig in years.
You eat a place, he said, it becomes a part of you.
Smoke teased from the pit, twisting
like fog off the rig’s slick wells,
like Penny’s voice, her follow smoke home.
But when its slim fingers curled,
seductive, toward the grill, I was gone.
Back home, she’d know me different,
smell it in my skin, sugar my engine
to keep me home. But when Eli
slid the plate before me, smoke rose,
I wasted little time —
I prayed forgiveness,
then polished every bone.