Poet Patricia Lockwood Dreams of Roasted Pturkeydactyls


2 p.m.: I sit in my backyard eating a chicken sandwich and sighing tragically after every bite. The sandwich is as cold as the universe. Here's the thing. I don't need to be rich, I just need to make enough money so that I can sometimes eat at one of those places that makes your sandwich hot for you. I don't know why but it seems so hard to make your sandwich hot at home, even though it should be easy.
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