PURE BOLOGNA & COLD CUTS

Sublime torture -
compacts the casing of her mind
behind the deli counter -
her inner most insecurities,
wedged in subtle greasy perversions
of frigid-fingered anxiety,
as she slips the Genoa
back under the flap of counter display.











Anticipation,
for the thick-necked stranger,
threatening to choose;
plump finger pressed stout
propping corpulent flesh -
double chin ground
into a heavy jowl drape,
as fresh -
as stripped intestine.

His thick index
appropriately points to ham,
her back turns
imagining the sickly engorged mound
of his portly cheeks swollen.

“Will there be anything else?”

She know the lid’s off the cream
as the chubby gent leers,
coins tossed into his waiting meaty palm
coo dreaded honey
from flabby-flapping lips -

“Hey baby, how’s yer Assegai?"