The Raid at Postville

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By Dale G. Haake | Tuesday, May 20, 2008 |

For whom the bells toll,

For those who toil in

Anonymity

So our steaks can grill

Just so;

Bells and sirens

Cold as ICE

Chill the air,

Days of uncertain future

Of certain killing of bovines

In gruesome and

chilling death lines;

The clank of handcuffs

The clank of that Weber

Toted from the pristine garage

The yank of carcasses in obscene array,

Ribeye, New York strip and filet mignon

The Matamoros shuffle

Not even allowed a

duffle – move on!

Kids without daddies,

I’ll take mine medium rare

But where do you draw the line

Between legal and

illegal, humane or not?

Processing meat – now alive now dead;

They are like processed meat

Without due process.

It tolls for thee.

Dale G. Haake

Quad-City Poet Laureate

Davenport