Welcome to our new web site!
To give our readers a chance to experience all that our new website has to offer, we have made all content freely avaiable, through October 1, 2018.
During this time, print and digital subscribers will not need to log in to view our stories or e-editions.
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!
Baxter Black is a cowboy poet, former large-animal veterinarian and entertainer of the agricultural masses. Learn more at www.baxterblack.com.