© 2012 RC deWinter ~ All Rights Reserved
The Killing Shed
He has a place off in the woods where,
when a cow gets too old
or a horse can’t pull,
he takes them.
if something’s no longer useful it should die,
because he isn’t living to support anything
that can’t pay its way.
I grieve each time I see him striding by
with some miserable creature,
terrified and bawling often as not, on a rope.
He’s none too gentle about it, either.
I lost count after a few years,
it isn’t possible to remember
all the faithful hardworking beasts
he’s dispatched as soon as he notices their infirmities.
It isn’t that we don’t have the land.
There’re acres and acres of open fields,
enough to support for a few last good years
the animals that make our prosperity possible.
I tried – just once – to convince him to pasture them out
while they could still enjoy the sun and the grass.
He looked at me with his twisted smile
and never said a word.
Gotta give him this much –
that shed is spotless.
He makes sure all the blood is hosed off
and burns the bodies in a far-away pit.
Now I’m standing in the kitchen.
I’ve just dropped a bowl full of batter
because the damnable arthritis in my hands
has made them clumsy.
Come to think of it, I broke two glasses
the other week, accidentally clinking them together
a little too hard when emptying the dishwasher.
Oh well, plenty more glasses up on the shelf.
© 2012 RC deWinter
Digital oils from a photograph by friend and
artist Constance Widen,.
Tech specs: Photoshop 7, Filter Forge,
VP5 Gothic Oils