Poetry
1 min
Henry McGinley
Valerie Hotchkiss
My grandfather died
While cutting a shillelagh.
He was up an oak tree
For there were no hawthorns
In this new land.
He hacked the knobby joint
Nearly finishing the job
The wood gave way, he fell,
Just eight feet or so,
but on his knife.
He walked into the kitchen
Mim stuffed a dish rag in the wound
And laid him on the kitchen table.
Alice ran down the hill
To fetch Margie's husband,
Ed the butcher,
Who ran up the hill,
Out of breath.
Ed knew the look
Behind the eyes
When a creature
Had been bled out.
What a blessing
Father Mike was spry
And made it up the hill
In time for
Extreme unction.
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