153 pages of gristle
before skipping
to the filet mignon
working backwards
through sirloin
and rib-eye
wondering what failure
is there in words
that fall from the bone?
what victory is found
in lines that chew
and gnaw and gnash
into nothing
but letters to be
picked from your teeth
over coffee and liqueur
and learned discourse
on the writer's upbringing?
