“I’ll have what I’m having,”

Either Key or Peele said it and I collapse in laughter on my leopard rug with tears in my eyes at the thought of it. He’s right, I’ll have what I’m having; the portobello mushrooms, the berry spread, rhubarb, rosemary, oak. A pit. And a crow’s liver and tongue to keep the twigs moist. I’ll have the fire climb these damn trees, the black smoke giving black lung to a neighboring boy as I dance and chant with a woven doll.