I set my alarm for four A.M. and didn’t need it,
I was already awake at three because I’d seeded,
the fire at midnight and checked it at two,
the twelve hour BBQ requires what you do,
which is stay close and manage and love the process through,
the long dark of the pre-dawn and the morning dew,
on the grass around the smoker and the temperature held steady,
the twelve hour BBQ’s the only thing I’m ready.
For, at this hour, at this commitment of the day,
the brisket went on at four, the ribs at eight they say,
need six hours, so the ribs went on at eight,
the pulled pork on the other rack at seven’s wait,
the chicken thighs at noon because they go an hour twenty,
the twelve hour BBQ provides and then some plenty,
of the various proteins at the various times,
I’m the conductor of the smoke and I’m in my prime.
Twelve hour BBQ, the longest day I keep,
twelve hour BBQ, I haven’t gone to sleep,
I’ve been nursing this fire from the midnight before,
twelve hour BBQ is what the hunger’s for,
twelve hour BBQ, every hour the check,
twelve hour BBQ, I’m a beautiful wreck,
by the time the brisket’s done and the sun is going low,
twelve hour BBQ is the greatest show.
By noon I’ve been at this for eight hours and the yard,
smells like the best thing in the neighborhood, regard,
has been paid by four neighbors who’ve materialized,
with their own beer and offerings as organized,
additions to the gathering that always happens here,
when the twelve hour BBQ smoke is clear,
enough above the tree line to send its signal wide,
come eat, there’s always plenty, come on inside.
The slicing ceremony happens at six exactly right,
the brisket rested an hour and the evening light,
is orange across the table where the assembled wait,
with the quiet of the congregation for the plate,
I slice the flat first and the point and the fatty cap,
the juices running out along the cutting gap,
thirty people breathing slow and nobody’s talking now,
the twelve hour BBQ delivers on its vow.
I’m still there at ten, the last guest leaving slow,
the yard’s a mess and the smoker’s cooling now below,
the cooking temperature and I’m sitting in the chair,
with the last beer and the empty plate and the air,
that still smells like hickory and fat and the day,
that I spent with the fire and the food and the way,
that excess becomes the most generous act I know,
the twelve hour BBQ is the only way to go.