I smell Sunday’s dead pig
“taking the smoke” over oak
and the steak sandwich which
broke my morning’s fast protests
my now moist love beading across
a greedy tongue in secret talks
with olfactory senses now aroused.
Should I smear some rosemary
and chives across its porcine form
(and more for the firebox as well,
to join the quietly spluttering pyre)?
Oh, yes, my. Yes.
now, quietly open a non-violent
g’vertz and sip slowly in anticipation
gone from mere moist to full drool. Do not sip slowly
nine halves of me protest – quaff like a pilsner!
That way I can have more of this thin prize
and swirl inside between my cheeks
like just so many more erudite
seekers of such swill.
Not yet time to toss sword stung
and foil-wrapped rust-tinged sweet potatoes
which will be bathed in Grade B
maple syrup and butter
(of mountain size)
to complement the roast onions
and garlic heads be-topped and anointed
with olive oil called extra virgin
and cracked pepeper
with Kosher salt
while split sundered baguettes
await their foiled turn at the crowded pit
at end to share space with similary oil-swathed
green onions and maybe a split and washed
over-summered pencil-sized batch of leek
with quartered romaine slathered
and christened similarly so.
Should maple syrup joint dill
to marry with just-picked and washed
little-finger thick multi-hued carrots I wonder
and is there room for a ceramic covered pot
in which to roast the succulent fare?
But quick. race two block
to the store to rescue some button
mushrooms from their sad languish
and dunk and wipe and toss in
whole in another pot with
butter, thyme and shallot.
Such feast is foiled by the lack of a
second pot, so beggar’s purse shows
a foil fortuitously twisted and twined
with a small dash of after-thought wine.
Now. What’s for dessert?
And how much room in the fridge
or freezer for this Sunday surprise?