Unit Price

The slicer is a silver scream,

shaving the ham into translucent sheets.

He handles the pile with a practiced air,

ignoring the queue and the wet city sleet.

His thumb is wrapped in a graying cloth,

a bandage turned muddy at the seam.

It moves with a terrifying, bored grace

through the salt and the cold white steam.

Under the nails, a permanent soot,

the kind that outlasts a gallon of soap.

He weighs the package and slaps on the price,

offering protein instead of hope.