Meat

The man who moved into town
three seasons ago
owned a quiet little shop
near Twilight Street and Old Crow

He worked the earliest hour
and the one nearest to dark
waiting for those running late for supper
or following the ones jogging in the park

A clever whisper and a snide hello
into his van, their limp body would go
past Willow Wind Pond
where white spider lilies grow

He was patient with each limb
as pieces slid across his scrapping table
tearing and peeling and striping
collecting the rib and round to label

No newspaper listed
any missing neighbor
no legal authority search
for recognition of his labor

And when folks in town would gather dismay
he would assert with heat
that he was the only one in town
who served fresh meat

Sharing a bit of fright with dVerse Poets on Open Link Night.