Ham Poetry

Hamburgers, we just can't seem to quit you.
We wax poetic about billy burgers at the casual Williamsburger on S2nd and Wythe.
Loosening the beef
the butchers pound the harlequin flesh
of heavy bovine divinity
that we will consume
in dripping chop meat burgers
between beaded buns burned
in the crisp air conception of spring
at the barbeque
on the tarpaulin silver tar roof
above the bay and
with one delicate derivative of hunger
we’ll lap our lips
of juices of divinity and yell
“Thank you butchers!
For pounding my meat
to golden perfection!”
and we’ll finish our fast burg meat
in the Billyburg street below
as we’ll have decided to take
a stroll on over
and hold hands high
with jiggley shaking shoulders
and tell loudly our neighbors
small delicious details
about the benefits
of a done-right-be-heavy hammer
in combination with a cow.
- a poem by Dan Herschlein