Fast Food

Fast food makes it seem simple -
at the drive-thru I don’t see
the pimples on the adolescent crew,
and if I’m lucky
I talk into the head of a clown
to order my beef broiled and ground.

When I was young I do recall a day at my grandpa’s
where my dad and his brothers, all seven of them,
captured Lola. The strongest one, my dad, took
a hammer and hit her on the head. The fast one,
Uncle Pete, stepped in and slit her throat.

I can still hear the crack of her bone,
the loud moo, then the silence
while her blood ran out. Like a pack of wolves
the brothers descended and strung up her carcass.
Grandpa used his knife to take her skin, then the
brothers sliced out steaks, ribs, and rump roasts,
and for the more adventurous
the brain, tongue and entrails.

I recall the look in their eyes,
shirts covered in blood, I should have been repulsed,
but can’t forget the passion, they probably went home
and made love to their wives, but for now, Lola
was divided and each took their share, enough
beef for each family to last 'till next year.

My mother sliced steaks to put in her chili
then added vegetables to make a stew.

The memory of Lola, a black and white heifer,
still haunts me but when I order a double paddy
in a combo pack, I drive through and never look back.