Sheila lives in Berlin because she
adores their sausages. She bathes them
in sauerkraut and ooohs. She wraps both
hands around the thick, curved buns,
careful not to squeeze them too hard,
gentle like a mother, and
pulls the paradise to her lips; she teases out
vinegar tresses with her tongue, kisses the
end of the sausage gently, then widens
her lips for the juicy girth. The mustard daubs
yellow her plaintive, quivering labia as they hover,
and she squeezes her eyes shut,
moans for her hunger to be sated.
And it is, as the meat marches
further and further through her
sausage-like esophagus, which squeezes
the meal down like a wet worm writhing on pavement.
What a delight!