Awake again at midnight, I stumble to the fridge
to retrieve the last anchovy from its oily bed
to prime my taste buds.
A slice of silky smoked salmon
on a baguette next feeds my hunger.
I discover and devour some
aged Stilton for my third course.
A voice in my head whispers "sour",
and only New York sauerkraut will do.
Unsated and asking: "Am I really what I eat?"
I slice a thick chunk of Parma salami,
poignant with diamonds of fat
and god knows what else.
Recalling food group philosophy,
I spy four spears of asparagus which
slide down my throat like guppies.
I feel complete till I spot North Sea
herring treading in brine and onion.
I pirouette to the cabinet
to top off my feast with a hunk
of alabaster halvah,
sweating honey and sesame.
"Done", except for a perfect
1971 Chateau Margaux.
Later, an Alka-Seltzer, with lime.
David Blackey is a retired lawyer whose career was dedicated to civil rights. His other career is world travel. His poetry has appeared in Plainsongs, Steam Ticket and Verse Wisconsin.