ode to Popeye’s chicken sandwich: a poem

heaven sent brioche bun:
honey sweet, buttered and toasted.
first flavor to greet the tongue.
king of the bread hill.
perfect bookends
of subtle flavor.

crispy chicken filet:
the size of a steak,
seasoned like an old veteran,
deep fried, moisture locked.
meat tender as a loving father.
floured like the fields of Holland,
salted and peppered.

fresh pickles separating cake-like layers.
brine-soaked submarine cucumber slices.
satisfying crunch like snapping a wishbone.
just enough to balance the interior taste.

spicy sauce is the key—
seals the deal.
a cut above the rest—
like finding diamonds in a gold mine.
covers the tongue like a flavor blanket.
justified in the heat:
like a hot summer’s day,
but not walking on the sun.
incomplete without it.

a league all in its own.

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This is a poem from my first book, bearing the burden of existence, available on Amazon.