“I Smell Sunday”

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?

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