Who killed the pork chops?

Who killed the pork chops?
Swaggering liberal patron dubs my haircut
“the siege of Sarajevo,”
Carthaginian peace with my dead cell legacy.
Short on fingers to count my days since coked out sunrises
better problem.
Ribs poking through like spring
invest in the fabled cast iron skillet.
Body struts back in purring for affection
this constant demand feed me love
famine years gleaner dizzy with the possibility of the next furrow
staring up at her like the clock at the end of the shift.