A scream from the kitchen.
The thud of a faint.
She sighs and arises
and walks with restraint.
Her neighbor lays peaceful,
eyes fixed in a stare
She’s passed out in front
of the new Frigidaire.
She looks at the rack
with eggs in its keep
Winking up at her’s
the eye of a sheep.
There’s a bottle of PenStrep
near the Swanson’s Pot Pies
And down in the crisper’s
a bagful of flies.
The butter tray’s filled
with test tubes of blood
Marked, ‘E.I.A. samples,
from Tucker’s old stud.’
High on the shelf
near a platter of cheese
is a knotted, but leaking,
obscene plastic sleeve.
Fecal containers
are stacked, side by side,
With yesterday’s piece
of chicken, home fried.
The freezer’s a dither of
guts, lungs and spleens
Scattered amongst
the Birds Eye green beans.
Her home’s a museum
of animal parts.
Lymphomatous lymph nodes,
selenium hearts.
Enough tissue samples
to hold up a bridge
But why do they always
end up in the fridge?
But she doesn’t worry
or turn up her nose,
She’s the wife of a vet,
it’s the life that she chose.
But maybe he’d worry
at lunch if he knew
He might just be dining
on Whirl-Pack stew!
