The butcher had only one hand. I would watch him make the steaks and chops. He would place the meat on the block carefully. Arranging it so as to make the intended entry point of the blade most accessible. He would then pick up the knife or cleaver and slice or chop in a single motion. He would next lay down the implement and again arrange the meat for a cut. Again and again he would repeat these movements until he had enough for the platter he placed each day in the window of the shop. I think he lost the hand in the war. But, who knows. He was a butcher. So many sharp encounters.
the door is open
I hope you can see it now
that is all I want
is a former corporate executive, stand-up comedian, actor, and director. His work can be found in several anthologies, and in the archives of Oddball Magazine, Muddy River Poetry Review, Stone Poetry Journal, The Raven’s Perch, The Rye Whiskey Review, Alien Buddha Press, and WINK Magazine, among other journals and magazines. He lives in Missouri with his Basset Hound Annie and near his eight grandchildren.
