Steaks are thawing out on the warmth of
the stove, set on a plate between burners,
mini-cube steaks
sealed in vacuumed plastic
wrap. Just pan fry ‘em with the usual
seasoning (salt, pepper, garlic powder)
and call it the land of plenty ghetto
steak, kind of steak I used to make
in that tiny studio apartment in Denver’s
Capitol Hill when I had nothing but
dreams and bottles.
So now all is late night December, my
stomach full of steak with bleak dark
swallowing up street lights as
Omaha’s overall phosphorescent
glow goes back to ground from cloud
bellies threatening snow and frozen
rain.
- - - - - - - - -
(December 21rst, 2013)
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