Reduction

We, like earthy, nutty spudmush,
like catch-of-last-Wednesday flounder
disappear to be tasted anew
in a sauce, a stew, an olio of oleos,
emerge sizzling from history’s skillet,
dished up fresh but distressed
as if by a short order cook endlessly quipping,
“If you can’t stop in,
then smile goin’ by!”