Once, at a churrascaria,
a waiter ran me through.
An accident, he swore.
The cut seemed clean,
straight through the chest,
with nothing vital torn.
The maître d’ packed
the cut with gauze
and sent me home.
But a chicken heart
had dislodged inside –
little did we know.
For weeks, I poked
at the padded wound
willing it to heal.
But after some time
that little avian lump
became quite a comfort to feel.
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