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Roasts and chops hang from the ceiling on strings;
black waxed cheese dangles
too—caught in criss-cross nets.
Sausage links decorate the shops like garland.
Hatchets and knives change places on the pegboard hooks.
Rib-eyes trade with T-bones.
The scales point to 10 o'clock like stopped
timepieces.
Both butchers exist in thick cartoon lines.
Twins, they wear the same bow ties, pin-striped shirts;
handlebar mustaches top grinning lips.
One butcher carries a meat-hook,
his brother—a leg of lamb.
His apron gleams bleached white—the other sloppy: stained
with a print where he wiped off his hands. 
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