A person's stature
Is never to be measured
By height.

In this box are Aine's rings,
Silver chains and secret things;
When she lifts the lid,
Set in the mirror,
Shines the most precious jewel,
And Granda's treasure.

She is the shadow of her shadow;
A hard green tomato on an October vine;
Like last year's silver tree tinsel;
The inescapable smell of a house housing cats;
A smoker's car;
An arthritic leaf, twisting in early December;
The runny nose of someone's toddler;
An empty gurney in a hospice hallway;
Or the last dark spike impaling dawn.
Hanging on and hanging in.
Not knowing. Not going.
Still here.

Da's  an ***** grinder,
Grinding heart and tongue;
Bull pizzles for his daughters,
Ewe livers for his sons.
Cranking in the summer kitchen,
Out of the morning sun.
He strings savory sausages
That please most everyone.

Mammy's in the smoke house
Anticipating some;
Mammy cooks when Daddy grinds,
She likes a little tongue.

The collective elective
Threw a bag of human waste
On the White House steps,
Torched it,
And stuck around to watch it burn
Live,
On TV.

We don't know our Best Before Date,
And that's a good thing.
But if you're in the Dairy Section,
Fire on all udders,
Don't kowtow to bullies.
Remember, the herd has your back.

If you find yourself in Produce,
Then produce;
Don't be content being
A pea in a pod.

There are the cereal killers,
Using wry wit,
And Rye Not.
Many are marbled and flat,
But not us,
We're Christmas Cake,
We Endure.

ME, I'm in the Meat section,
An offering of flesh and smoke
On the BBQ altar of rendering.

Yes, we have a definite shelf life,
Growing stale, curling at the sides,
Drying out,
Souring and curdling
Till our expiration date.