The Mincer.(Poem)

 
THE MINCER 
 
   Fitting the handle to the twisting blades 
   of what might be stomach or heart, is a feat. 
 
   When it's fully assembled the heavy innards 
   can be viewed through the gape in the head. 
 
   A screw buttons the rings of the mouth. Once 
   the table's in its grasp, thanks to metal wings, 
 
   anyone can see the mincer is not to be messed with. 
   It's as familiar with holding back as the black dog 
 
   with two heads, has never heard of the country 
   of perhaps. Neither subtlety nor beauty 
 
   are words in its language--there are half a dozen 
   for mastication. I manage to avoid this character now 
 
   but once I saw it being packed on Wednesdays 
   with dry chunks cut from the ...