*Laughs inwardly* "Oh! the dear old days of pink!" I remember looking inside the McDonalds windows and seeing those patties roll on the grill, and fresh cut french fries!
Johnny Depp's daughter puzzled me for a moment. Didn't even know he had one. I still take my chances on rare burgers and now you've made me hungry for one about the size of Oldenburg's sculpture. Plus the picnics and bikinis, a cooler full of beer, the outdoors....Cheers
*Laughs inwardly* "Oh! the dear old days of pink!" I remember looking inside the McDonalds windows and seeing those patties roll on the grill, and fresh cut french fries!
Hope you weren’t looking at the pink slime that passes for beef today!
back in the early days they actually used beef
Johnny Depp's daughter puzzled me for a moment. Didn't even know he had one. I still take my chances on rare burgers and now you've made me hungry for one about the size of Oldenburg's sculpture. Plus the picnics and bikinis, a cooler full of beer, the outdoors....Cheers
Ah thanks, B. Yes, from I believe his first marriage. His daughter was sick with e-coli. Enjoy safely!
And thanks so much for the restack!
No problem. Pesky e-coli
The poem feels like a playful rush of nostalgia sparked by something as ordinary as a too‑pink burger.
I love how the speaker jumps from a moment of worry straight into memories of summers that felt endless.
There’s something warm in the way those old days come back cousins, picnics, sun, and all that easy joy.
The phrase “patty pink” turns into this funny little chant that somehow carries real affection.
It’s lighthearted, but there’s also a soft ache underneath, like realizing how far away those moments are now.
The pop‑art reference fits perfectly everyday things suddenly feel meaningful and worth remembering.
I like how the poem treats nostalgia as messy, silly, and precious all at once.
It shows how one tiny detail can open a whole drawer of memories you didn’t expect to revisit.
The rhythm feels like someone talking while flipping burgers at a backyard grill, smiling at the past.
By the end, it reads like a small toast to those rare golden summers we only understand once they’re gone.