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!
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