A poem... Haven't had many lately. What kind of poet am I anyway.

After beer,
I’m up late
in my Berkeley kitchen .

Hungry, I can’t decide what’s the itch.
I scratch the fridge,
find old green and democratic veggies,
decide: “No.”
Then I guess at the cupboard and notice corn oil.
--And then I know what I want,
deep fat fried Republicans.
The kind that crunch when I bite them.
Lightly salted, so as not to raise my blood pressure.