Butcher Shop by Peter Gidlund

Butcher Shop by Peter Gidlund

I trotted into the butcher's office.
Two indistinguishable men columned the counter.
Wearing faces with no details, they eyed my eyes.
Their holey shirts left nothing to the imagination,
especially in such a hot, humid, holy place,
effectively displaying their defensive, meated rotundity.

I did not know why I chose to browse,
among the shelves of piggies and cows,
surveying the pryamids of roast beef
and the missiles of gristle.
Upon whiffing and sniffing a carnal scent,
I abruptly had a reactionary taste for salad.
The butcher caught my gunning,
raised the most stern of brows, as if to say,
"What?  No good?  These chops speak for themselves."
And they did.  I bought half a pound of mutton,
and that night I ate half a pound of mutton.
In the morn I spent half the month's work on his craft
and I never looked back.  His blood was my blood,
from then on I was connected to that maestro
from his cuts and feats of meat.

I took my girl to the cinema that night.
We saw a bland film, about a bland man,
he did some bland things, but we weren't really watching.
Once the credits rolled, we rolled over to Geno's.

My vegan girlfriend  ordered a bruschetta,
followed by a costly ailoli,
with a mushroom mango pate.
I ate many things,  but there was no food.

Chuck the Butcher had captivated my senses.
Like a lover's embrace, I could not forget.
The primal stench of sun glazed flesh,
tags and signs that had me yearn for yesteryear,
a nostalgia of a timeless deli,
where nothing is yielded to the meat.
the  dripping juices on my face,
that made me admit I wished I had a bib.

In his primeval carnarium, Chuck ground through
his timeless job, making his meats,
staking his steaks.  An apricot tart could
hardly compare to ground chuck between two buns.
He stole my heart, through my tongues.