Not French, but from a bag.
Not homemade, but from a shelf.
Spread with memories of apple butter
--a mental eulogy.
Not Italian, but off the Burmese border,
from the colonies left over
and roasted in a wok, poured fresh and hot
into an image of Old Glory.
Not Virginian, not the finest shag.
Not sold in Pound's Innisfree
where whores are created for our fancy,
kind and sultry, not threatening or dirty.
Instead found on the northern plateau,
South of the Clouds
and warm in my mouth,
the source of all that is nutritious.