Annual Ritual I walk past this west end bbq after therapy. I’ve made the journey weekly. Ascended the stairs to the dormer office, a mixture of dread and hope, Always hope of breaking through. Most days something shifted, some days it shattered what I thought was bone but turned out to be an ancient knot in soft tissue. I’ve slowly grown a self. I sit at a plain table eating a pulled pork sandwich, Pork pulled from ribs. After all this re-building I am hungry. Once a year I go alone; this restaurant is a respite from shame, The family who runs it is always kind, I dip each bite into sauce, The Portuguese bread absorbs the juice, I suck on its sustenance, And notice what’s changed Fresh coleslaw still crunches Amidst new curtains and candlelight. All the work of re-building bones is invisible to most. How satisfying it is eating this food. The dense meat fills my belly the slow smoke is sweet, I dab the meal’s remnants from the corners of my mouth. They say bones can strengthen after a break. Back out in the lit up night, I squint against it’s false illuminations Metal wheels whine on tracks I ascend the tram’s steps and Sit on a red plastic bench. The weight of protein outlasts sorrow. The streetcar crawls forward across the city.