working in the slaughter house
the floor was slick,
blood running like gutter water after rain,
and the men smoked while the knives sang.
I didn’t feel a thing.
neither did they.
you learn not to.
cows stared before the bolt hit,
then nothing,
just a shudder, a collapse.
so much blood—
it got into my boots,
into my dreams.
I drank heavy to rinse it out,
then got up and did it again.
no choice in the matter.
paycheck in one hand,
choice cuts in the other.
the dog wagged his tail.
the wife cooked steaks
while I sat half-dead in the chair,
beer can sweating in my palm.
vegans eat stuff
that tastes like bark peeled from a tree.
let them.
me, I lived in the stench,
among knives and shadows,
working in a slaughter house.
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