the cutting

the butcher, with his wired
glove,
his white smock
stained
with the purple
arcs of blood, he cuts
all day
with sharpened knives,
each with its own purpose.
on his feet, he grows
weary in the cold room,
boots against drain,
the slap
of meat, the hooks,
the wrapping,
the scale tipping with
the weight
of each day slipping away.
it's a job, a life.
he knows no other,
it's too late for something
new, too far into
the day.