Poetry as a coping mechanism

Grandma Cradheville is dead

he said, the moment when her body

joined the rest of her, long fled.

And so it ever is, and was.

Our minds and spirits leave

Before our body does.

* * *

The wings were so moist, we forgot to expect

The heat, which left our sinuses wrecked,

Upon which, we looked for a bit of respite

To the cool, crisp celery and savored a bite.

Our quick conversation now loosened its pace,

As we stripped the meat off, getting sauce on our face

Dropping bones on the plate with a calm, steady rhythm--

Patti's wings are a thing which just hasn't a name.

Though we don't always have cranberries to go with 'em

We eat them with relish intense just the same.