In a grocery store
off Tenderloin Road,
a venison struts
to the meat display
displayed like a photoshoot
model hungry
for a juicy tenderloin.
Wait. Does a venison or deer strut?
I got it. Behind the deer,
a lamb prances toward
the packaged meat
wrapped in oil-based plastic
with an innocence
akin to my daughter’s
joy for a lollipop
wrapped in oil-based plastic
born from the death
of ancient trees.
The blade of assembly line
slaughter is keen to slice
only the lamb’s circulation.
Don’t worry. My daughter
just got a sliced knee.
Wait. Does a lamb or sheep prance?
I got it. Behind the lamb,
a bacon trots toward
the cured meat
with a strong gait
a mirror to my mother’s
flexing confidence
down Shankbone Street.
Wait. Does a bacon or pig trot?
I keep on getting
my slaughterhouse order mixed up.
I’ll just go vegetarian.
Ah yes there’s the salad bar
next to the deer-sheep-pig trio.
I’ll get a generous helping
of greens with a vinaigrette dressing
topped with bacon cubes.
Do bacon cubes come from bacon?
I give up. I’ll take my salad home
past a slate of trees
filled with feral ham
roaming a pig land.