the meat district (pessimism)

poetry is swine walking a plank.
grabbed at their feet by a chain
and flung to their deaths.

One after one after another
they fly and screech
and their cries are carried to the folks looking on
listening to one screech after another
until you can't tell one from the next
and all the squeals become a squeal
that starts promptly at eight in the morning
and is carried to bed by the workers that drive the machines
that pick up the pigs and throw them into the chutes.
Carried to bed next to clothes splattered with blood.

Tomorrow the workers will start it again,
throwing thousands of pigs to their deaths
making them scream
not caring what each pig has to say.