About a Quarter Pound of Bologna

Our butcher was not fond of measure —
good at it, but not fond of it —
brandishing what technique
he had taken from his father
with deft slices through pink
balloons of meat. No one
argued the number he
jotted on the wrapping paper.
To insist he buy a scale would seem an act
of violence against his ancestors.
It was a small town. There were
no tall men in town. There
were tall women and they
were aware of the shortage.