DA BOOTCHERS

“Parts is parts,”
one chicken killer says to the other,
an inside joke
and his face folds up in a smile.
These guys are never allowed
to work the counter
in their slimy aprons
and unspeakable boots.
One sees me and waves a drumstick,
it’s still got a foot on,
a yellow naked claw
pink, shocked skin.
He uses a shear instead of a knife,
snipping away pin feathers
and sawing open gizzard lumps
to spill grain on the floor.
Crack the little bones,
split the breast,
arrange the pieces into a
Styrofoam tray and sheet
it with plastic film.
Free range no more.
Once they were tennis balls
huddled beneath heat lamps,
standing in pie tins of cracked corn
or bowing to the water pan.
Those awkward weeks
gave way to runs of hard, packed dirt
where ants lost the battle.
Those were the best days.
All plans led to a shipping crate
and a short ride.
The butchers grab them by the legs
two or three at a time
and toss garroted birds in a pile
of wide-eyed Sunday dinners.
This place smells like soup gone bad.
Don’t even look at the beef case.