My Job.

Quivers and droops
On the sterilised table.
Poor thing in abject misery.

It's truck smashed ribcage
Falls and rises shallowly
Beneath your sweaty hands.

Snip away that patch of hair.
Sad eyes meet yours, look away.
Push the needle beneath the skin.

Push the plunger to end misery.
Small cry as legs buckle, sinks
Onto the table top, eyes glazed.

Upset at the death my hand has caused.
But I have to do this many more times.
Ahh well, life goes on...

For me.