A Poem…about Steak

Steak

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No one loves you like I do.

In fact, I’ve several nicknames for you—

Beef chunk ambrosia

Coronary delight

Salty, buttered rump of heaven.

All of these and more.

It’s like I said—

No one loves you like I do.

When I first met you

as a young lad

I didn’t fully understand you.

Why would they leave your bone in?

Why are you a little burned on the outside,

and a little undercooked in your fleshy center?

Also…

Why would they give a six-year old

a Ginsu knife?

You tasted as if a live cow

had strutted up to me

and begged me to eat it.

Which I did.

Some people cook you better than others—

That restaurant I used to haunt

That annoying guy with the green, egg-like grill

whose house I visit for only the one reason.

My grandpa,

the one time he did it right.

But none of them revere you

like I do.

A dash of salt.

A blob of butter.

White charcoals, hotter than Chernobyl.

It’s pretty much a religious experience,

right?

You should’ve seen my face

when I ate your cousin the other day.

Most midlife crises

begin with flashy cars

and a new therapist.

But he and I,

we sat alone in the dark,

and I made stupid faces,

while he just

raised my cholesterol.

It’s fine.

I’d die for him.

And for you.

I mean, it’s probably too late already,

given the number of Angus I’ve sacrificed

to my sacred fork.

I think the neighbor hates me.

He stands on his deck, watching me worship you

as if you were some woman he coveted,

some woman I just grilled

over a five-hundred degree flame.

Whatever.

He lurked a while, gazing at me

like a starved wolf, who is also balding.

That’s weird.

I hope he was looking at you, not me.

When I’m alone, which is almost always,

I daydream of you.

You don’t talk much.

You just sizzle seductively.

Is that even a thing?

When we embrace, every vegan

in a ten-mile radius

dies.

It’s a shame, really.

I’m sure they were good people.

But nothing like you, my friend.

You, who loves me in a way

which makes me embrace arterial hardening

like a hug from an old friend

who just happens to be delicious.

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See more (not nearly as ridiculous) words here.

J Edward Neill

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

I wrote a poem to my son – he thinks it’s hilarious

You didn’t even cry.

Just hunkered there in my arms

blinking with meek lids

staring

as if to say,

‘Is this the right place?’

Maybe it isn’t.

Maybe it is.

But there we were, the newest of companions.

If nothing else,

you were swift to stake your claim.

That time you loosed your little bowels

in my hands.

The dinner you gave back

while in bed

on my face

twice.

When you loosed expletives

at the bedroom door

as if it were a bartender

denying you a beverage.

The time you leapt headlong

into the filthy water

and nearly died

but came out laughing.

Your odd disdain for corn.

Your completely understandable hatred

of Mondays.

Your well-aimed,

tiny yet formidable

fists.

When you asked me

whether bubble gum counts as dessert.

The way food touching

pretty much causes

the end of the world.

Eccentricities, some might say.

The building bricks

of a child

one day a man.

Not to me.

These are the foibles of a friend.

The wisest sage among

little boys

the world has ever known.

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For more words, find me here. 

J Edward Neill