The feast days loom ahead
With viands traditional for the date.
I dread their coming. How or what
I eat means little when she is dead.
Life does not hold much merriment
For those who linger here behind;
Solemn things weigh down my mind
My fund of joy is drained and spent.
I’ll eat of course; the flesh requires
Maintenance. I sometimes wonder why
I keep my habits from years gone by
But then the roast my gut inspires
And so I fill my plate with food
From rim to rim and slowly fork
It down. No matter beef or lamb or pork—
I eat it all and hold it good.