WHITE bread, of course, and individually wrapped
pasteurized cheese. Mustard, if you like.
The meat of the matter, once tight
in its shiny deli casing (O bologna!),

sliced thick and weighed in flesh-pink stacks,
home in a rustling bag, maybe fried
until it curls, and the center rises,
heaven in a sandwich: O bologna

best eaten with chips and drunk with milk!
Plaything of children everywhere; first-named;
poor stepchild of bacon; a wurst gone fat:
of grease and gristle you are born, bologna!

Your porch swing memories will always swim
before me when I pass you up for turkey ham.