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David Greenspan: Colored Lullaby of God

October 27, 2014 by PBQ

The butcher is today thinking of throats,
               of their skin and fat and tendon.
     He thinks of opening his
                    with a carving knife. The butcher leaves
     his shop door open. He hangs a sign from the window –
          The bloated stomach of a horse
                    is not to be confused with something holy.
     Before the butcher exits his shop
          he prepares and packages
               with delicate hands each order.
     Mrs. Barras – a pound of skirt steak.
     Mr. McAlly – half a chicken, roast.
     Mrs. Colgan – charred piano keys.
My customers will be happy, he thinks,
                    And what more can anyone ask?
               The butcher walks through the streets
                    dodging cars and bicycles. He walks
               towards the dead nerve center of the city
               humming an absent mind. On one corner
          a man yells gibberish. The butcher
and the man harmonize. Their song
                    stops traffic. Everywhere
     men and women leave their cars idling.
          Their appointments are forgotten,
     their groceries grow warm, their children
          let loose balloons. A crowd gathers.
                    Silent they listen until some whisper –
He has always sliced my roast well.
          Hats and coins are thrown in the air.
     Everyone applauds. The butcher
          no longer thinks of opening his throat.
                    He says This is a kind of holy moment
     like those in books where stray dogs surround us.
                    The butcher returns to his shop
          and wipes clean his meat grinder.
     He orders two blocks of Alpine Lace.
The butcher carries his trash to the dumpsters and thinks –
                    Beyond this city are trees, trees
          and everywhere neat piles of teeth.

Filed Under: Contributors 90, Issue 90, Poetry, Poetry 90 Tagged With: Contributors 90, David Greenspan, Poetry, Poetry 90

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