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.