Sunday

A weekly poem, read by the author.
March 18 1999 3:30 AM

Sunday

(Continued from Page 2)

was fickle meat--tasted like

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chicken one night, the next like

poor man's lobster. He'd never admit

being reduced to eating coon,

to be called out of his name

and into that cartoon.

It's not surprising they could eat the mess

he made of their playground: They watched

the October hog gutted with grim fury,

a kind of love gone wrong, but oh

they adored each whiskery hock, each

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