Vienna Sausages
The hilarious part is how we think
they are exotic, suitable for a silver tray
to be served at an adult cocktail party
skewered on toothpicks
arranged with edible flowers
pinky-sized hors-d'oeuvres from a can
slimy, slathered in sweet tomato sauce
perhaps a traditional recipe from Austria
a place that sounds like a storybook
where people waltz on hillocks
and falling snow waltzes with them
to music, music box music, a tinklingMy cousin and I discover the sausages
in the far back of a kitchen cabinet
my aunt's secret pleasure, something she eats
when she isn't starving herself
which was most of the time and as girls
we know better, know she lives hungry
know we shouldn't steal pleasure from her lips
given how my uncle oohs and awes
over any woman built like a string bean
Now that's what I'm talking 'bout!
but there is a car in the driveway
and keys on the counter
and we are still young enough
to believe in escape
Ya! Ya! Giddy Up!
Man, I wait for it: the shoebox-sized covered wagon with the red and white checkerboard awning from the TV commercial to explode from a closed kitchen cabinet and gallop between my mother's bare, blue-veined legs. She's wearing a yellow terrycloth bath robe. Her black hair is fuzzy from another toss and turn night.
I daydream-beg for the give and tug of reins. The clippity cloppity of miniature horse hooves across kitchen linoleum. Come on, little Chuck Wagon, show yourself. Let's go. I'm having a conniption here waiting for you.
It doesn't matter that my family doesn't have a dog. I'll give the food you ferry—meaty beef chunks smothered in tasty brown gravy—to our neighbor's grey poodle Mitsy. She's a beggar. Just please, please come to my house with your wagon and your horses. Leap out of your hiding place and scare my mom to death. Make her spatula sail through the air and boomerang back to her open hand like a magic trick.
Skid under the kitchen table. Take a sharp turn and head for the living room. Teeter for a few thrilling seconds on just one side, on just two wheels. My father sits at that table, bent over a cold plate of breakfast eggs trying to convince himself at the start of another day that my older druggie brother isn't headed for the worst of endings.
Make Dad jump in his chair. Knowing him, he'll get right into the swing of things and yell out something perfect like What in tarnation? And then wagon man heads straight for me. I'm here in front of the tube watching Charlie's Angels with Malibu Barbie and Ken, who are bickering over the one measly beach towel they own between them.
I'll shout with sheer joy when you run your little team over my bare feet. Oh, the tickle of hoofs. The glide of wheels. Let me chase you all through the house with a lasso to whip and whine above my braids. Three bedrooms. Bathroom. Basement. Garage.
I'll follow you straight through brick and mortar to backyard grass. Does it hurt to travel through a solid? You disappear into wood and sacks of dog food all the time, so I'm not really worried about it. We can vanish from this neighborhood like a pinprick of light that winks once on the edge of a vision.
We'll go wherever you want to go, Chuck Wagon. You and I can find every hungry dog that lies on the edge of all the worn-out braided rugs in all of this world cuz if that's what you want, then dag gummit that's what we'll do. Ya! Ya! Giddy Up!
