Good Luck Meal

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.