Thursday, November 7, 2013

Butcher Shop

My gloves, once white and unblemished,
now splotched with blood and snot 

Cavalcade of carcasses:
pigs, heifers, ducks, chickens
Reeky room of death and squalor

My first glance at
hooks in the freezer:
hooks painted crimson, blood crimson 
with flesh dangling: gelatinous ooze,
remnants of things that lived
Hanging, just hanging from the hooks

The apron now matches my gloves
except for occasional splashes of urine
or smeared feces  

"Time is money," my boss always said
I learned the trade of swiftness:
drag the meat, throw it, hear the
slap of flesh on concrete
floors; lured my morals away 
and left them at the door
I got used to it


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