The Sleepy Teller of Meat

He is swinging a meat cleaver / Covered in blood behind the deli counter / He is spraying down the floor with a green hose / The Butcher wears a black apron / He splashes in puddles near the drain / The Butcher he whistles, he has no brain / The Butcher is bloodless without a name/ He carefully splits the bone against the echo of a table-saw / Long before the day is done, he resumes again / Before the sun rises next morning.

I have always wondered of the soul; capable of taking away innocent life as a routine part of working day or, working with the dead flesh of an animal. I have wondered what must posses a man to endure the horror and bloodshed and still, at the end of the day, rest their heads on a soft pillow, caress those whom they love. Is man permitted these extremes? To experience both the quickened pace of heart accompanying evil and the divine heights of love?

To live in both kingdoms?


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