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Poem

I pounded, pounded, pounded, not in that rock 
on pop gun sort of way, with a tinge of smoke 
after the sudden spark, keeping me well amused,
but in that bam, bam, bam, meat squishing
and flying in tiny bits so you wonder if everything 
remains sterile way that the Flintstones would have liked
And the Italians, too, dousing it with lemon
And wine until you see stars as you wobble
And pucker up for the kiss, that comes or not,
And that is always the way it begins, with elbow
Grease, tastes offered to any taker, welcome smiles
 and songs and company, and then the luck 
shows up, smelling faintly of singed cabbage, turn-about elbow 
noodles dangle from their lip and the heady sense
that you were there that day, all aware. And life made good 
your meal of effort by offering a swallow of champagne.

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