Monday, October 12, 2015


She'd come over,
she told me,
and make me
feel good
for a hundred;
for two hundred
she'd make me
feel great;
and for five hundred
she'd offer
up in whatever
way I liked.

"Over easy,"
I teased,
the yolk unbroken
and nestled
within white folds.
"You're the chef,"
she whispered,
showcasing one
of her ingredients.

I now needed
to remember
where the hell
I'd put
my utensils.

Norman Savage
Greenwich Village, 2015

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