Oil, Vinegar & Presence

—t r a b o c c o

THE MAKER

Cold air.
Door hum.
Wrappings sigh.

He lifts with a spoon,
not fingers—
respect.

Salami, folded moons.
Capicola, thin flame.
Provolone, white hush.

Bread waits open,
a split cathedral.

Oil drips.
Vinegar whispers.
Lettuce shivers alive.

He builds,
not piles.
Weight becomes rhythm.

No talk.
Just slice,
press,
wrap.

Paper tight as skin.
A crease of silence.

The world holds its breath
until the first bite.

THE BITE

The paper tears—
a soft hiss.

Steam, oregano, oil.
You lean in.

Taste

Bread sighs back,
warm and salted.

Sharp provolone—lightning.
Capicola—sweet fire.
Salami—iron and salt.
Ham—sun-fat memory.

Tomato bleeds sugar.
Vinegar cuts it clean.
Oil runs down your wrist;
you let it.

Chew slow.
The world narrows
to tongue and heartbeat.

Time bends
to the rhythm of salt.

The maker’s care
still in the bread.
You savor his patience,
his perfect silence.

You bite again—
and the field hums open.

THE DRINK

Cold bottle—
condensation slick,
glass against lip.

First swallow
cuts the salt clean,
a river through smoke.

Carbonation snaps—
tiny detonations of mercy.
The hoagie waits,
breathing in paper.

You go back—
mouth still wet,
bread meets tongue again.

Everything louder now—
oil, vinegar, fat, fizz.
The world hums
between bite and swallow.

You think it’s food.
It’s not.
It’s the body...
remembering joy.

Trabocco was challenged to use his "Signal Literature" and write about a hoagie. Clearly, he proved he can write anything into presence...

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