Grey light crawls through
soap-scummed glass
And far below the
hog-trucks pass,
From gate to dock.
Dusty 'jackals... toward
a carrion pi le...
I scuff my boots down
kill-floor-aisle.
The fat-stained 'jacket
scrapes my jaw.
And now the moving chain
invokes a law
Of Ten,
And endless Ten,
Again.
While steaming carcasses
swing and shake,
The sick-sweet stench of
entrails
Makes my throat's phlegm
rise.
I hear the drone
Of motors.
Wheel of knives
On steel and stone.
Mocking demon-eyes of
lamps
Leer from waiting
cooler-hall.
I spit... and count the
swaying-shapes to ten.
Look sideways at the
other waiting men.
Bone-scratched palms
against the hot-slick-ribs,
Rollers clink,
My shoulders pop with
strain.
Numbness in my back and
legs
Replaces pain,
And a ton of reeling
headless-beasts
Moves down the rail.
Walk back and count to
ten
For Hal,
And ten for Ben,
Then count my ten,
And shove another ton,
Along-again.
No pelvic thrust
Could make me feel more
strong...
Or helpless...
While I dream of
woodlands,
And my distant loves,
I realize,
That with eight thousand
hogs
We'll make a Forest
Of the up-thrust hooves,
By merely pushing
Mindless
All...
The many tons of tens
Down blood-dapped
cooler-hall...
Past mocking demon-eyes
of lamps
That wait along the wall.
Bob Heimerl, 1980