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Meat In A Suicide Sandwich
Such a sandwich as I find myself-
the meat twixt two slices bread;
I, the life, the meat and matter
to slices Son and Father seeking death.
Oh, father as unknown to me as
that rock in that quarry somewhere;
not a crack or squeak but
a failed suicide;
how thoughtful, odd
to make that your half century final share.
A life as a rock in a quarry;
thanks for the update; now I know you care.
Or, perhaps you’re just stoned.
Son, you slice of bread upon me,
pressing threat of death,
your elaborate attempts,
all to fail in knowing there was never a need,
but,
in time,
I may become the bread upon which you,
the meat sit anew,
growing your own slice of bread above to be pressed upon;
me, below to fret upon.
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