Acquired Taste

The ham is sweating in its plastic wrap.

Twelve dollars for a meal that feels

like an insult.

The sign outside said 'Fairgrounds'

and for a second, I could taste the salt.

The fries in the cardboard cone

drowning in so much vinegar

it makes your eyes sting before the first bite.

The gray paper turns clear from the grease

until you can see the grain of the wood

on the picnic table through the bottom.

You can’t take them home.

They turn to mush by the parking lot.

They only exist in that heat,

among the prize hogs and the diesel.