by Nick Gisburne
They swim inside polluted plastic bags,
The pieces of a body, wet and warm.
The idiot, my fence, forgot the tags.
He’s dead to me. This junk is not the norm.
The mercy is I found a buyer, keen,
Compelled to save his precious little girl.
Exhausting other options, where they’ve been
Is nothing when your world is in a whirl.
Inspecting flesh and fat, we make the switch,
A squalid, backstreet bargain. Parts for pay.
We neither of us care about the bitch
Who lost her life to seal the deal today.
They tell us we, the dealers, have no heart.
Baloney. I’m just waiting for the part.
