the butcher,
his apron,crimson in the blood of dead
animals,
is busy
in thought as the knife
he holds
cuts through
the skin and bones, the flesh,
of what soon
will be wrapped in white
paper
for you to
take home.
you wonder where he is right now?
deep in thought,
day dreaming.
thinking
about love,
perhaps?
most likely, not the cow.
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