the work

the butcher
is covered in blood.
he likes it like that.
his smock
stained with the days work.
his cheeks bristle red
from the cold.
his muscles ache,
his fingers have stiffened
into claws.
the tiles are white
behind him, the knives
shine silver, sharp
and pointed.
he knows his beef, his
sides, his
pigs, how to break a
chicken down. he thinks
nothing of what has died.
he just works.
bring him a fish and
it will be boneless
in no time.
then he goes home
to the kids, the wife.
he speaks little of his
day. these are separate
lives.