Butcher

on the Irish
side of my
family my
grandfather
who never i
was to meet

was a but
cher of 
meats
so in
many
and in

countless
numbers
there were
chickens
that went 
under

his blade
and as the
ancients
say trust
that all
must 

pay not the 
boatman
but have
change
for the
turn

stile for
while no
money is
needed to
reach
nirvana

you have to
to come back
to this world
and do it all
over again
to get it

right
so right 
after his
passing
and the
giving of

his last rites
he will from
his wake
wake as
i take
my

Italian
Mother
out to eat
at a proper
ristorante for
gastronomic

delights
where we
both ordered
the same 
secunda
chicken 

karmagiana
Copyright © | Year Posted 2019

Poem

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