Every Saturday, her dad
Would grill in their backyard;
With charcoal hot on cinder blocks,
While she kept watch and guard.
And savory and sapid-sweet
Were those times without care;
Until the day the grill went cold,
And her dad wasn’t there.
See, no one lit those coals again,
Although she looked in vain;
In bars and underneath soft sheets
She sought that taste again.
She could not find her lost charcoal;
Her desperate search – no trace –
Till she woke in a small white room
With charcoal on her face