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  • Friday's at the Angus Beef Pit

    The silence here hangs like a black veil.
    I knead the damp soil that holds my élan spirit.
    With numb fingers I trace the granite angel
    while cursing the eternal life that I haul in shackles.
    Tombstones are flanked like armored guards;
    you would make centurions out of all of them.

    You warmed winter away because you could.
    Spring's sandbox was your favorite place to play.
    You chiseled out roads for your freight trucks,
    LifeSavers and Hershey Kisses
    crayoned on the sides.
    The roads you lined with geodes and smooth pebbles
    that we gathered at Gloucester for six summers.

    How they glistened as honeyed sun peeked
    through kaleidoscope patterns of pin oak branches.
    You said the roads in Heaven shimmered like that.
    Bees like black jellybeans hovered; spying you said.
    Dragonflies defended the convoy traveling to Tootsie Roll Tower.
    And while the robin sang, her speckled jewel was snatched.

    Smearing the ashes from my forehead I drive to the
    Angus Beef Pit.
    A waitress who wears a crystal cross serves a platter of bloodied beef.
    I cage it like a wild animal until my ribs ache.
    On Friday, I'll have Fillet Mignon wrapped in bacon.
    He gave his only begotten Son, -------- He took mine,
    and I never ate meat on Fridays.

    Pamela Wilonski
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