After a couple of times, the red
refuses to wash out or fade,
and the strong smell of raw meat lingers
as if his hands were his blade.

The dirt is permanently in the cracks
of the old-fashioned tile floor.
Unappealingly homey in a sense
that scares most people out the door.

The dirt and blood are just remnants
of the killings, journeyed astray.
You could tell this butcher didn’t chop
for the bundle that is his pay

Because most times he wouldn’t sell
a thing, just out of resistance.
He kept his sadistic habits close
and his customers at a distance.

Attached to his vulgar obsession, he glared
away the buyers like a scarecrow,
only hanging bodies on display because
he liked to see the blood drip by the window.

 
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