A short tale of whimsy, a trifle,
a bit of confection, of spice,
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.
Sliced bell peppers and big chunks of onions
gathered, lathered on the fresh bun,
they tempt the palate, tease the tongue,
open wide the bun and spread hot mustard
set the stage, the moment, for the star,
the scorched and blackened piece of meat
reminds me of every sausage, each one,
I have ever eaten before...
So much memory, in the tastes,
treasure beyond measure, of family and fun
of ballgames, tailgates, and the carnie;
a cacophony of moments
dripping with that t same grease.
Do you smell it too, sizzling,
on the smoky hot grill?
My lips curl with a smirk, a laugh,
as i write these lines for you,
as I laugh to myself, again,
of the pleasures of excess
and the lusty gluttony
of eating. . . another one.
==============
Edited October 8, 2024
Sausage - v6
Edited August 21, 2023
Sausage – v4
https://raymondafoss.blogspot.com/2023/08/sausage-v4.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, 2023, and 2024. All rights are reserved. Contact me at Ray Foss (raymondafoss@gmail.com) for usage. All of my poems are at www.raymondafoss.blogspot.com Poetry Where You Live.
