He smiles gently,
and all is still:
a fly squats briefly
on his forehead
above his good eye
then investigates
the cooling carcass.
He has finished his work
been paid, cleaned his
blade, holstered the hammer,
wiped the red spatter
off his arms; the pig
lies mute nearby,
already bacon in my mind.
He smiles gently again,
turns and heads off
down the dusty road
towards the converted shack
where his wayward wife
and little girl of seven
will soon face
the same deliberate smile.
Brilliant, Doug.