Fried Bologna Sandwiches

Pungent meat slithers from the sticky yellow box

A heavy black pan is getting angry on the stove

The purple-pink discs hit the grease

They cling like tentacles

Strident steam puffs pink mountains

Popping and squealing like tea

Dad’s hairy hands claw the edges

Flipping recklessly 

Burnt rims sweating with umami

One last deep breath

Punctured by a dull blade

They rest on paper gardens

Which soak with heat

A silver blade smears clouds with gold

The mountains go between

He presses down like god

And parts the sea

 

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