Mrs. Capone made sausages
            On Saturdays I hung around a butcher shop
            Delivering meat on foot for tips
            And lunch –
            The highlight of my day
            They always looked the same, the sausages,
            Coming out of her machine
            With their pink translucent skins
            I never knew or asked about
            What went in
            She never told
            She served them warm and crisp
            On a quarter-loaf of bread
            They were delicious
            Even if business wasn’t good or
            She and Bernie, her husband, had a fight
            When she was happy
            I could have eaten my heart out
            All afternoon


            Emanuel E. García, Leaf Thoughts, One Hundred Poems2013

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