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Tuesday, January 15, 2019



Ich habe angst
for an Angus
who provided
the rib-eye steak
I cooked
along with baked potatoes
petits pois
(that's little peas
in that Frenchy lingo)
with everything swimming
in butter
which means I likely
violated some Old Testament law
Ah, but I'm not Jewish
in fact, I'm as religious
as a something
post this or post that
Vegans and vegetarians
will hate me
Cattle will fart at me
and make global warming
worse for my fellow humans
Peas scream when I pass their field
Shove my pod up your ass” they say
Potatoes are just plain stupid
which makes their caring impossible
I thought I heard a faint scream
when I mashed them with my fork
and salted
everything on my plate

With blood pressure rising
by the minute
I chew slowly and deliberately
since this is the first steak
I've eaten in Iowa
in five years
I'm sorry Iowa Beef Producers
I'm really poor
and some Senator or Representative
in Washington
will scream that I used
my S.N.A.P. Benefits
for expensive things
A surprise check
from a Rural Electric Association
ownership retirement
bringing tidings
of great joy
Angus beef
and the depth
of understanding
of my habits as an omnivore
Praise beef from whom all
blessings and juices
topped with butter ad nauseum
on the plate
down my chin
on my shirt
whereupon my shirt
even tasted beefy
enough to make me think
I could eat the shirt off my back
which I won't wash
so that I could drool
first thing in the morning

Praise be to Drool
in whose image
we are all created

Barry G. Wick

Thursday, January 3, 2019

A Visit with My Father

A Visit with My Father

The legs are slower
covered in support socks
that turn his white legs beige.
His hands are a varied mass
of liver spots and wrinkled skin.
On this face a bump or two
looks to be new from the last time
we talked four years ago.
His obvious pride for the brother
who stepped into his professional shoes
no longer strips me of myself.

Father, the song still plays
even though you're tone def,
never could sing all that well,
we'll manage not to follow you.
There's nothing we can do
from day to day to stop the fate
we felt at the grave of your parents.
You said you didn't like graveyards
We didn't linger long to say goodbye
it was our private moment
for me to say I'll watch over them.

Did we talk of my children?
Not one word.  There's no reason to open
that kettle long since boiled away
And did we talk of my mother
in whom part of you is still in love
and long since departed from the scene
enough to say she was fine,
though age begins to tell on her
and every pill doesn't do her well.
Here I am the walking love
you had one early spring evening
in a Dakota blizzard run wild in '51
So did you not expect a howl from me?
I'm full of them and more to come.

Barry G. Wick  (written in July of 1995