“So there I was waiting for a bacon sandwich, brown sauce, cup of frothy coffee, when in walks this girl…”
Ode to a bacon sandwich
The bacon, my bacon, lies asleep
upon sliced bread smothered, covered in butter
sprinkled with pepper facing an avalanche of
Mayo caressing the still forms of the strips
of bacon.
There are those who say
mustard brown or yellow is their favorite
or worse, tomato catsup, like a river of blood
A few who will not add anything
relying on the purity of essence in the bacon.
In a forgotten hallway Group Captain Mandrake
searches for brown sauce.
Outside the world collides in sirens
and gun fire.
