People queued for hours, days,
to get it done. Strictly backstreet,
a kind of nod and a wave type job
then you'd be led through a curtain
of butcher's strips into a sort of arena,
earless dozens jostling shoulder to shoulder
to watch you standing knock-kneed in the sawdust,
shoulder gripped by a man in a velveteen hood,
craft knife balanced like a quill in his free hand.
The lights would dim, your heart fighting
to escape your chest. Finally, a drum roll
that only you could hear.
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