Bits of food and flavor mix in the can of my Philly.
Chinese chicks tote chickens while white women push babies with baskets of baked treats.
My soup is HOT.
Campbell’s cant spice like my Philly and Progressive cant process the sounds and smells of the melting pot.
Its time you sup on the music of cheesecake symphonies and feast your eyes on the mixture of my home.
I can’t ladle you out a portion of it.
But you can smell this stew.
Raw fish fries beside buckets of fresh fruit ripe for my picking then cut and sliced to fit the blend of my streets and those who live in them
A fusion of the past where Vietnam vets bleed, and my amigos work then sing praises cuz they are fed, I am home here.
Streets so riddled with compound cultures you can taste it.
Take it home, warm it up, and be content in knowing that your palate has been expanded just by walking down the street.