My meat turns into dust as I recline,
The ham, the steak, the pork, the chicken too,
Not dry as dust, but dust – so white and fine;
When I awake, there is a residue.
My meat is now a powder on the floor,
And empty are the hooks that held it fast.
I bang my fists into the freezer door.
My days as bloody butcher – are they passed?
My son he finds me there, and he asks me,
“Why is our inventory now all snow?”
“Because it’s wintertime,” I say with glee,
Pretending to be happy. “Now let’s go!”
If your meat turns into dust, do what you can –
Take your son’s hand and make a meat snowman!
The other day my workmate Joan was talking to another workmate who sits across from my cube. I was engrossed in my work so I really wasn’t following the conversation, but I thought I heard Joan say “My meat turns into dust,” and immediately whirled around and said, “Did you just say, ‘My meat turns into dust?’ I need to write that down.” Most people – most sensible people – would have just written it down and ignored it. But not me. I just had to use it somehow.
