A worn wooden knob
Shiny here, pitted there
Rotates loosely on a steel pin
Set in a sinuous cast-iron arm
A horn flares skyward
It’s fed meat and gristle
The spiral augur chews and crushes
with gruesome moist sounds
Carrying meat to the grinder blade
Shredded charnel remnants vomit forth
from a perfectly circular mouth
Tumbling into an old glass bowl
Chipped on the edge but not abandoned
By B Gourley in poem, Poetry on March 16, 2017.
