Flat, fatty
patties,
sizz-sizz-sizzling!
The
pocket-change burgers of my youth
filled my
stomach on nights when I was in a hurry
to leave my
family table.
At fifteen,
twenty cents each,
they
perfumed the inside of Eddie’s forty-one Dodge.
White
Castles were mere hors d’oeuvres,
and we piled
accusing pyramids,
ziggurats of
tiny blue-and-white boxes,
on the
midnight stoops of friends
who failed
to partake with us
on our
nightly beefy forays.
But only
Hubie’s Hut on Little Neck Turnpike
had patties
that sizzled,
And we sang
his song:
“Who stole
my heart away?
Who makes me
feel so gay?
-- Hubie’s!
He’s a hut!”
Hamburgers
today are
flattened
meatball excesses
spawned on
backyard grills
by fat guys
in aprons.
They are not
what I
remember
at the back
of my tongue:
Yum-yum!
Flat, fatty patties sizz-sizz-sizzling!
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