Ends Meat
This is an example of a title that won’t go away. I’ve been trying to write a poem to attach to it for six years. Here’s the latest stab
Roberta liked to say
she was my black granny,
sixty-eight
with two bum knees
no better than her sons,
one in prison,
one on his way.
we cleaned a place
called the Pier
where she’d eaten
once in fifteen years.
surf and turf,
hundred dollar wines,
desserts they flame
at your table.
Roberta said
the steak was dry,
didn’t drink
and sweets
would kill her
without a hint
of blue collar pride
so many
check-to-check janitors,
people like us,
liked to share
over smokes.
her joys were simple,
like how on a good month
when bills went out
on time
she’d go to the sausage house
next door
and buy ends meat,
the stuff at the end
of cured tubes
they didn’t otherwise sell,
the same batch
the rich folk ate,
just stuck at the ends
and nothing wrong
with it.
a few pounds
in her bag,
she’d bring sandwiches
for a week
that we’d eat on break,
talk about
how good life was.
Tags: janitor poetry
