Treasure among the cellophaned slabs
in the raised pit of raw meats:
mixed in among chicken breasts edged
with phlegmy yellow fat, pig knuckles, and packages 
of ham hocks for seasoning slow-cooked green beans,
pork tenderloin for under three dollars a pound.

We come to pick through, to hold and gauge 
the weight in our hands against the hunger 
waiting at home. One people, some in church clothes, 
some still in pajamas, engaged in rite primordial: 
jostling to get at the prime parts of the kill. 

Consider not the big trucks
rumbling through Butchertown,
resigned wet eyes peering out 
from between the slats of the stock trailer.
Nor the squeal of the steel saw blade through bone, 
the electrical outlet noses 
floating in puddles of blood.
Or the leathery odor of feces and fear
emanating from the rendering plant
the wind diffuses across the city
like an aerosol portent.

Imagine, instead, peaks of mashed potatoes, 
broiled kale, hungry mouths 
seated around the common table, 
some saying grace, some mid-argument,
the steaming roast on the platter uniting all,
how sonorous their grunting and belching,
how grateful they are to do the dirty dishes.

*                            *                                    *

Yo, Adrian! We did it! At times grueling, at all times wonderful to read the fantstic poets and poems of LexPoMo. Thanks for taking the time to read and comment on my outbursts. Love this family.