The smell of garlic infuses the kicthen
basil envelopes senses long thought gone

Olive oil just about to a sizzle
the meat not one but a three some of flavors
pork, veal, chopmeat
shaped into a ball of expolsive taste.

The meat hits the pan
and the oil dances happy and awakened
the meats shell turns the lightest shade of brown

Drained on a napkin they await there fate
into a vast pot of seasoned red lava
were they will cook with honor along side
such special guests, short ribs and pork loins

Moms meatballs a wonderful treat
and she makes enough of them so that an army can eat
but if you ever have one you will understand why
when they are on my plate the love she makes them with
makes me want to cry.

vincent armone

http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/moms-meatballs/