Good Day


the butcher sharpens his hooks

patron saint of the circular saw
he stands stiffly with death like a groom
atop a cake

as a child I was a sea
the sea left behind
in the middle of the desert

the butcher drives
the empty roads home

hazard lights like two eyes
blinking closed

the butcher’s eyes are
my mother’s

in the morning
a perfect imprint of a boot
in blood
on the kitchen floor

a good day’s work

once a year I arrive
home empty

we eat

Brian Russell