is behind
the counter, Stan, a spitting
image of Frank,
his father,
he's less wide perhaps,
but taller
and the same mustache.
his apron
is streaked in blood.
where's
Frank, i ask, staring
at the meat
behind the slant of glass.
he passed, the son,
says matter of factly.
died in his sleep five
days ago.
how can i help you?
we have a sale on T-bones,
and rib eyes,
can i wrap you up
a few?
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