Sitting down before my steak
(rump, inch-thick, done medium-rare
with baked potatoes in their jackets,
sautéed mushrooms, soft in butter,
sour cream in the split potato,
and just a splash of salad)
I have the arguments lined up
I'm just another animal,
a predator, like many others,
perched here on the food-chain somewhere,
up towards the top, it's true,
but sharks and cheetahs, lions and crocs
can dine on me if I get careless.
The herbivores are born for slaughter
out there on the wide savannahs
whirling in a sudden pool
as lions trim off the weakest.
We raise them slowly to their fate,
these ruminants who suit our palate.
Without us they would not exist.
And yet as I arrange my silver
and straighten up a napkin,
I hear the sound of panicked hooves
slipping on the shit and concrete,
a long, dark moaning in the crush,
the sigh the hammer-gun releases
entering the skull.
And somewhere too I know all this
may one day be remote
as selling slaves or cooking cousins.
And yet, tonight, it tastes so good.
The salad now has done its work.
A waiter bows
and takes away the blood.