Butcher's Hands
as though from some
underground crypt,
a cold draft
from the fridge chills
his bloodied hands
in the quiet night
that's turning slow
from greenish blue
now to indigo;
briskly rubs his palms,
knobby fingers with
sudsy soap,
plunges them into
a white plastic pail
of black water
under the the yellow
glow of an old
electric bulb;
reflected light bobs,
leaps and mutely
screams
in the violated water,
struggling, as if
to be free;
clean hands sleep
as guiltless
as can be!
Copyright © Romeo Naces | Year Posted 2007
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