bacon

bacon

outside the
butcher shop
at 78th
and 13th avenue
sits a pile
of skinned
pig carcass
wrapped in plastic
they are stacked
one on top
of the other
pig upon pig
their bodies
spread out
they look like
leaping rabbits
or jumping sheep
the smell is outrageous
acrid and decaying
like a war zone
death on a spring
morning
there is one man
standing next to the pile
he is wearing
a bloody apron
and smoking
a cigarette against
the sun's light
he has a look of
utter apathy
on his face
this carnage means
nothing to him
but a paycheck
these pigs are
bacon frying
on a sunday morning
after a cold glass
of orange juice
while the church bells ring
for the holy
and the lost.