Forget
the frank, the hot dog -
Give
me the Fenway sausage.
Lansdowne
or Yawkey,
Just
give me the street, the crowds, the carts.
Sausage
you shrug, you, the reader
Of
this trifle, this whimsy -
What
do I mean, me the storyteller?
Read
on, won’t you please.
Peppers
and onions
Tease
the tongue,
Bun
and hot mustard
Set
the stage,
The
scorched and blackened piece of meat
Reminds
me of every one
I
have eaten before.
So
much memory
Of
family and fun
Of
ballgames, tailgates, and the carnie;
A
cacophony of moments
Drip
with grease.
Do
you smell it too, sizzling
on
the smoky hot grill?
My
lips curl with a smirk
Writing
these lines
As
I laugh to myself
Of
the pleasures of excess
And
the lusty gluttony
Of eating.
. . another one.
==============
edited December 28, 2015
Sausage – v3
(editing version 2)
Edited September 21, 2012
“Sausage – v2”
posted February 14, 2004
written May 27, 2001 8:54am
Sausage
All of my
poems and photographs are copyrighted by Raymond A. Foss, 2000, 2001, 2002,
2003, 2004, 2005, 2006, 2007, 2008, 2009, 2010, 2011, 2012, 2013, 2014, 2015.
All rights reserved. Contact me at Ray Foss (raymondafoss@gmail.com) for
usage. See all 40,460+ of my poems at www.raymondafoss.blogspot.com
Poetry Where You Live.
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