lamb chops, please

the butcher

in his blood splattered apron
has no

room for foolishness.
he's in the slaughter business.

go in with a list
and surety.

don't browse the meat.
what's it gonna be, he says.

his fat fists on the counter,
the ragged lines
of healed scars

on his thick fingers.

what's it gonna be he asks
you again. his dark eyes burrowing
into your skin,

but you're not ready
as you eye the rib eyes,
the ground beef, pork chops.

so he moves on. Next, he

says, you, what about you,
he bellows,
pointing at a small woman
wearing a fur coat

and a tilted leopard print hat,

lamb chops, please, she says
quickly
pulling out a handful
of cash.