Fried Chicken and Handcuffs

A ship at sea, metal glinting greed,  

blue water mocking all that floats.  

They meant to escape the ground below,  

but brought its weight into the waves.  

Two women, black and boiling over,  

crash like waves in the buffet line.  

Fried chicken, crisp and golden,  

the last piece becomes the warhead.  

The cruise staff doesn't blink,  

they’ve seen this before —  

spilled drinks, cheap perfume,  

bodies breaking against the edges of hunger.  

A uniform moves in, holds up a rulebook,  

as if rules matter where anger eats.  

Handcuffs glisten under fluorescent lights,  

the grease still warm in the air.  

They parade the women like storm flags,  

hawked eyes whisper in every filthy corner.  

Was it rage or just plain survival?  

The smell of fried chicken lingers, nobody answers.