The Raid at Postville
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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
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