Rambunctious, punctilious,
flying
off the handle—
come Saturday morning—they'll all stand a little
transfixed—stainless, big
doe-eyed, bare-
footed, bright, and single-
mindedly beholding—the flickering
blue light;
warm,
present, and
alive—to the visceral sizzle
and concentrated
smell—invited by
such horrible,
humble, and crucial pure animal
fat—as it drools outward
from each
and every little
peel—of the brave thing
you're sacrificing—faith-
fully, mind-
fully, deft, sure, and vestment-
clad,
as usual—there in your lovely
wife's dead-
from-a-heart-
attack, wise, old,
great grand-
daddy's favorite—cast iron pan.
