and their wives were steeped in applejack.
The butcher’s hours were 2-5 AM,
when hospital moms zombied in
of a girlish smile.
We learned to track
in the rusted row of Pontiacs
on yet another lot.
At 3 PM, the shops closed,
traffic snaked on Highway 10,
and the butcher sniffed a heap of babybacks.
So yeah, I wanted
and quick. I’d heard
the single mill sing in its singular stink.
My mother flayed the fat,
tenderized a chewy cut of meat.
A starlane purred, the dealer shook another hand, and I’d think
This is the time for hatchlings.
Time for flies.