Our intimate relationship with french
fries has proven a flexible ménage
à trois, linking us with that common wench
called hamburger, flaunting parsley corsage
of steak, even romping with turkey club
sandwiches. Remember times we’ve ambled
through power-breakfast platters? How we’ve rubbed
good eggs’ elbows (preferably scrambled)?
At times I’ve suffered your independence,
like the night those mashed potatoes matched you
with green peas. You lacked any resistance,
or so it seemed, wanting me to catch you
mingling with those pods. I was at a loss,
spending the night with your cousin, shrimp sauce.
Roger Armbrust
August 20, 2007
