The Butcher

He raised the cleaver high above his shoulder
and brought it down at the joint with a thud
and clank, the blade forcing thru flesh and bone

to hit the metal table.  I watched from the safe side
pretending to look at cuts of elk laying in the green
decorative plastic in his refridgerated case.  He smiled

as he helped me choose a gift, laughing as he described
which was his favorite and why.  When I asked if
it was an odd gift, he dimpled and said he would love

to receive it.  His chuckle rose like fizz on soda when the next
question surfaced: how he kept his apron so clean
while dismembering geese, chickens, and lamb all day.

His answer trimmed the fat from all future queries –
he is good at everything he does.  As I leave, he picks up
the knife again and follows me to the edge
of the counter to ask if I’m busy tonight.

1 Comment

Filed under lust and love, Musings, poetry, writing

One response to “The Butcher

  1. I truly and honestly love this poem.
    It seems diconnected yet close.
    Ever so slightly odd.

    The line “His chuckle rose like fizz on soda”
    is genius.

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