Remember Fried Boloney?

By: Alfred Fournier

for Roberta

How we cut an X in the center,

little wedges on the sides,

so it wouldn’t balloon in the pan.

Sound of it sizzling as we clattered

in the kitchen, two kids, unattended.

Dad pulling extra shifts at the plant.

Mom in the hospital long-term by then.

Teenaged sister distracted

by blue-jean-jacketed boys.

We didn’t mind, you and I,

opening our imaginary restaurant:

two patrons, two chefs. Once,

you plucked violets and clover

from the backyard grass,

arranged them in a little cup between us,

served it to me on Wonder Bread

with a side of Better Made chips.

No one had to worry about us.

We might as well have been married,

living in a villa somewhere.

Not that big empty house

at the corner of childhood

and futures we couldn’t imagine.

“Pass the ketchup,” I said, and you smiled.

There was nothing fancy we needed.

Everything felt fancy to us then.

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Alfred Fournier is an entomologist, writer and community volunteer in Phoenix, Arizona. His poems have appeared in Cathexsis North-west Press, The Main Street Rag, Plainsongs, Amethyst Review, The Indianapolis Review and elsewhere. His poem “Tomorrow I Will Be Sweet God” received a 2022 Pushcart nomination from Gyroscope Review. Twitter: @AlfredFournier4.