A Touch of Rosemary

A poorly dressed, bandana'd lady bought

his dearly coveted leg of spring lamb

at the supermarket checkout, paying for it

with food stamps denied him, right behind her

with his bag of 85-percent fat-free

burger meat. Of course, he fumed, the fare

of a retired history teacher like himself,

and off he stomped to vent his spleen. New Orleans

or Charleston, he muttered to himself

en route to Halligan's for a drink or two

to think the matter over with the care

it so rightfully deserved. In which process

he grandly spent the spread between lamb and beef

and a bit more, as his thoughts warmed to it.

Having chosen his southern blitz, in history's

carnal intercession, he recalled

Sherman's bloody march through Georgia, down the route

from Atlanta to Savannah, laid waste

for spring plantings of both of their allotments

(oh ravished soil enriched with burghers' mete!)

to help shed a nation's long dishonor.

Our real birth in the world of freedom,

he thought, although there's still a way to go

with food stamps for some, and sots like me.

Fueled with such insight, he tipped his glass

to her and hers. Bon appetite, he grinned

as much from whiskey as an honest wish,

and hoped she'd use a touch of rosemary.