gorgonzola

Gorgonzola

      a poem by Vicki Patschke

Stepping up 

to the counter 

I declare my 

menu choice.  

“Gorgonzola salad, please.”

“Gorgonzola?” 

“Yes, Gorgonzola.”  

A wondrous word

so guttural 

so satisfying 

on the tongue.  

Sometimes I use my 

deep, throaty voice

enunciating 

ever so 

slowly

 “GOR. . . GON. . . ZO . . . LA.”  

Sometimes I 

emphasize 

just one syllable. 

“GOR-gonzola.”   

“Gor-GON-zola.”  

“Gorgon-ZO-la.”

I savor the sounds.  

They tantalize my tastebuds 

and tickle awake my fantasies.  

They are the 

bold brash brazen 

syllables 

of Greek gods, goblins and 

dragon conquest.

The young barista 

oblivious to my glee

hollers back 

toward the kitchen

“One Gorgonzola salad!”

“With vinaigrette dressing?” 

a voice calls in reply.

“Yes!  Vinaigrette,” 

I say, 

stretching out the word.  

“V I - nai - G R E T T E 

dressing.  

On the side 

of my GOR-gon-ZO-la salad, 

please.”