For the Love of Pete
Daneil Quitazol
The priest who feeds his soul is kind, like wine
He pours sweet life into a bowl so hot
It steams his skin like fog that eats the coast.
This old gray man, his soup in hand, leans back
A bald dark skull-to sip and taste good will.
He's Pete, he's old, not wise but weak with wear
From time. At night he lays with eyes not shut,
He still cannot go on without her touch.
Her eyes were green, her walk was fierce. He dreams
Of days of past good times when she was here
With him and they were one- but he is left
To live on earth. His wife, his bride, went back
To dance in God's good night made warm by love.
His time has not yet come, his life's undone.
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