The Butcher with Kind Eyes

Our Butcher is young.
And he has kind eyes-
The large, dream-boat kinds:
Lush, dark lash-frames,
And lash lines that crinkle
Sweetly, when he smiles.

His shop's just a shack
Where flies buzz merrily
Like baby copters
Around cuts of meat,
Dangling carcasses
And culled animal heads.

On the palm leaf wall
An old calendar hangs.
In bright green and black,
Ornate, cursive-like
A little dusty now,
A prayer to his God!

"A kilo of prime cut,
No fat please;
And do throw in some liver!"

He takes our order
Kind eyes listening
And sets to work fast:
His knife swoops,
Light-quick silver flashes
In smooth, sharp arcs.

He packs our order
With long practised care
Adding thoughtfully
An extra green pack
To catch the dull red drip.
"Now won't stain your bag."

He chats all the while
Of his valueless notes
And his now slack business;
"But it'll pick up surely
Quite soon, won't it......?"
We pay him and leave.

Dunno why I glance back:
Find him gazing quietly
At the culled goat-heads
With his large, kind eyes-
As they gaze right back at him
With their blank, still ones.