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Meat

She turns up the blue flames, lowers the chops. Dripping crackles, iron is fat licked - grease on her fingers. The meat finds its voice, splutters of buttery smaze. The pork is in bloom. The animal inside the flesh disappearing. The meat opening florets of aroma. My stomach is cramping, not with anticipation, but with an acidic hopelessness. Mother turns from the gas burner; splattered apron - flushed cheeks. She smiles, not looking at me, but seeing a man who will be home soon. “He will love these.” I pretend not to hear, but wonder if there will be milk with my cornflakes.

Copyright © | Year Posted 2019




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Date: 11/23/2019 5:25:00 PM
Hello Eric Asford, I just had dinner. After reading this poem, i got hungry again. Now I will have dessert. Have a nice evening my friend.
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Darlene De Beaulieu
Date: 11/24/2019 6:07:00 PM
Eric, i love apple pie and ice cream. Even apple pie with cheese. have a nice evening my friend.
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Eric Ashford
Date: 11/23/2019 5:51:00 PM
Hello Darlene, please enjoy you're pudding. When I was young we did not have 'desserts', unless an occasional apple counts. Tonight I made up for that with apple pie and cream! Thank you.
Date: 11/23/2019 1:18:00 PM
:( ... In my grandparents house we all ate... the same... we ate high and we ate low... My fav. was home cooked beans with her cornbread. It was warm and good, we never knew we were poor. Silly us... we were happy. Excellent write. You have a real gift. Ann
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Eric Ashford
Date: 11/23/2019 1:44:00 PM
Hi Ann, thanks for the kind commentary and the personal reflections. Well, there is good poor and bad poor. It's not the poverty that matters, it's the folks. Poverty of spirit is far worst!

Book: Reflection on the Important Things