Being Perfect

About four years ago, Bill indulged his adventurous side and joined me and a group of about 75 guys for a weekend men’s gathering. I remember what he said about it – and wrote this poem for him a month later, witnessing his mastery of the grill.

The Longing

Bill says, “You know, unlike all
those guys opening up about
their pain, I’m pretty happy. If

there’s one regret”, he confides
with a glint and chuckle, “it’s that I’ve never
done anything perfect.” He opens the stainless

grill and asks if I believe the pork
round—a revelation of juice
and char—is ready, so even I, who haven’t

touched meat in forty
years, even my vestigial
carnivorous longing

is stirred. To answer, the hell
with perfection, if Bill can do this one thing, maybe
there’s hope for me, redemption for us.

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