“A band saw doesn’t have any friends.”
A Chicago
A butcher’s band saw has no friends.
It isn’t hung up on means and ends.
It isn’t ethical or philosophical.
It isn’t hypocritical or hypothetical.
It doesn’t socialize or psychologize.
It never swears, it never lies.
It never strikes or takes a breather.
It never tells time, either.
A butcher’s band saw has no friends.
It never bends or makes amends.
It never improvises or improves.
It never falls into grooves.
It never receives or sends.
It never borrows or lends.
It never saves or spends.
It never copes or fends.
A butcher’s band saw has no friends.
It follows neither fads nor trends.
It won’t maintain a website.
It won’t get in a food fight.
It never catches cold.
It never feels old.
It never gets dressed up
Or takes drugs and gets messed up.
It doesn’t, like athletes, compete.
It doesn’t, like adulterers, cheat.
It cuts through a slab of meat
As if it were a blade of wheat.
When it meets a careless finger,
A butcher’s band saw doesn’t linger:
It doesn’t haggle or hesitate.
What it does is amputate.
A missing finger’s good for nothing.
It can’t type or wear a ring.
It can’t point to or poke.
It can’t scratch or do coke.
It can’t mix a drink.
It can’t unclog a sink.
It can’t flick a switch.
It can’t take a stitch.
It can’t pour a jigger,
It can’t pull a trigger.
It can’t daub or draw.
It can’t start a saw.
A missing finger never mends.
A butcher’s band saw has no friends.
Robert Forrey, 2007
