I Am Not A Vegetarian
Salami-Christs
hang in the window,
something dried and cured
draped in yesterday’s intestines like
an ill-fitting robe,
spiced batons of wooden nickel living,
a 2 for 1 deal, the yellow sign promises:
like the twin, the bi-sexual,
the double decker
bus
through avenues of city concrete;
twin salamis, like 2 sticks
of a 4-post bed,
dangling in the butcher’s window
over cheese bricks, over Damocles;
dangling ominously behind plate glass
this rainy Saturday morning,
beside the Polish coil
like a hangman’s
noose.