the butcher

the butcher who insists
he nows you,
comes out from behind
the counter
wiping his hands on his
blood stained
apron.
he shakes your hand,
gripping your wrist with
his other hand.
his hand is cold
and curled still
from the knife he uses
all day.
let me bring you out
a good cut, he says.
smiling.
wait, don't leave, i'll
wrap it for you.
rib eye? he says, or
sirloin. no, he says,
both i'll bring both.
it's so nice to see
you after so long.
I rarely see my old
friends. he brings you
the meat wrapped in white
paper with red tape.
you go home and cook
the steaks, you cut each
sweet tender morsel
and chew. you try to
remember his name,
the butcher, where you
might know him from.