Poems October 1993
Order
That time I needed to order
thirty-eight veal chops for the
Society’s dinner,
and figured that nobody would stock
so many, I asked Druzetich
the Butcher, “Can I order
ahead?” “Sure,” he said, with
his grasp of idiom, “no problem.”
He grinned with Hungarian competence:
“What kind of a head?”
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This article originally appeared in The New Criterion, Volume 12 Number 2, on page 38
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