A shop beside the cobblestone sidewalk
Enticed us closer to its door.
Shelves piled high with towers around us
Spoke of blood and sweat of yore.
The pungent odor of
As we scuffled off the terrace
Into the quarters of the seasoned store
This, that, or the crusty one on the tray
Along with the remnant in the drawer
Compels my pate to hallucinate
And the soul and imaginings to soar
What e’er my loathsome hand should find
That it shall devour
A hair breadth from a pickle rind
Or scuffling a shriveled flower
What I would give ‘bout now
To have a morsel just to taste
Only a slice then I would vow
To surrender forever the curdled paste.