Sausage Forget the frank, 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. 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 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 on the smoky hot grill? My lips curl with a smirk Writing these lines As I laugh to myself Of the pleasures of excess The lusty gluttony Of another one.
Raymond A. Foss, Esq. A poet who does law to pay the bills (for now)