Each time the ashy smell of smoked meats filled my lungs
with piled high sandwiches
spilled over with fat, grease and garlic soaked into rye bread
One bite of the corned beef and pastrami sends me whirling into my tongue
thick with the juicy chew that soaks my mouth and tumbles
down into my stomach
the warm sumptuous morsels take me to heaven
Behind the counter my father winks, he sees me
but only biting down into his prized possession
I see him, and eat to make him happy
connect to him without words
or truly knowing each other
Beneath and beyond
the rows of salami, turkey and roast beef
that separate us.
Then the song begins
The counter men wearing their sticky, stinky white aprons,
a choir sing, Marta, Rambling Rose of the Wildwood
Their serenade from my childhood deli ecstasy
My father blows me a kiss
without even knowing I exist
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