The Butcher

Not sure about this piece. I always feel like Im cheating in some way when I use free verse, abit like playing with words for the fun of it. Nevertheless, it feels good to get back to my attempts at writing something. Inspired by my local butcher. Just goes to show how the most mundane of activities (buying meat for the week) can spark off creative bits and pieces in my head...

Well heres a weekends worth of poetry. A grand total of two.

The Butcher

To me he could be a painter,
since his hands are always red
and their prints leave ritual marks
all over his white coat.

When he pins down his muse,
A tentative creativity rises.
The practical part begins

Like a surgeon, which he could be
inspects the mass of red matter,
fingers eager for a spectacular incision

before cutting it like a cook
as though it were a plate of butter
Laid out into a collage of pink.
A boneless work of art.

I watch him as I wait
when under the flourescent light
and the cool glass
and the hum of a man working,
A hand reaches out for the heart.