meatballs

meatballmondaymorandi

Meatballs make the man, says Artemio

with the arch of his back

while he is crouched over

bus tubs of raw

pork, ground

and parmesan, and milk

and oregano and veal and things, knees on the concrete

and tile

second time this week, producing same results, January

cold floor, icy mornings, steaming sip, numb after noon, delayed for dinner, abbreviated in rest

some mornings we toast over prosecco to wake up

our clean slates

he is mixing with his arms and gloves, Mets cap on backwards, and he is the proudest man

to ever live in a ghost town.

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