Forget
the frank, the hot dog -
Give
me the Fenway sausage.
Lansdowne
or Yawkey, just give me the street,
the
crowds, the carts, the smells.
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 moment,
the
scorched and blackened piece of meat
reminds
me of every sausage, each one,
I
have eaten before.
So
much memory,
of
family and fun
of
ballgames, tailgates, and the carnie;
a
cacophony of moments
dripping
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 August 21, 2023
Sausage – v4
https://raymondafoss.blogspot.com/2023/08/sausage-v4.html
edited December 28, 2015
Sausage – v3
http://raymondafoss.blogspot.com/2015/12/sausage-v3.html
(editing version 2)
Edited September 21, 2012
“Sausage – v2”
http://raymondafoss.blogspot.com/2012/09/sausage-v2.html
posted February 14, 2004
written May 27, 2001 8:54am
Sausage
http://raymondafoss.blogspot.com/2004/02/sausage.html
All of my poems, photographs, and videos are
copyrighted by Raymond A. Foss, 1999, 2000, 2001, 2002, 2003, 2004, 2005, 2006,
2007, 2008, 2009, 2010, 2011, 2012, 2013, 2014, 2015, 2016, 2017, 2018, 2019, 2020,
2021, 2022, and 2023. All rights are reserved. Contact me at Ray Foss (raymondafoss@gmail.com) for usage. See all 53,000+ of my poems at www.raymondafoss.blogspot.com
Poetry Where You Live.
America, Family, memories, sausage, mustard, New Hampshire, poetry, Poetry Where You Live, Raymond A. Foss, taste,
smells, Writing Poetry, Red Sox, Yawkey Way, Landsdowne Street, Boston, Fenway
Park, hot dog,
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