I serve sausage20 April 2013
I serve sausage, and when I serve sausage I am vengeful.
A little less sausage for this man,
who clothes himself so handsomely.
Less sausage for this man,
with his milky, maudlin eyes.
More sausage for this man who is patient.
Who trembled when he ordered and has counted
out the money in his pocket in advance and
who is going nowhere, that I can tell,
For this man the greasy runt, too.
Fried deep, overflowing its skin, added to the regular helping
like a grizzled, stunted addendum.
No sausage for me.
I would choke and puke on it.
Squirm and choke and puke on it.
Behind the vans,
by the wire fences,
where it is still and quiet but for me.