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January 25, 2006

Goat

Leslie F. Miller

Goat.
Goat.
You could be a child's first word,
easy as dog, dada.
Goat.
Poor man's lawn boy,
frisky pet,
reason to take the rolls
we never eat.

On the way home from lunch
with daddy
I pick you for your looks,
black and white,
feed you bread
through chicken wire,
whisper secrets
over steady traffic hum.

Goat,
I can't afford my shoes.
Squishing my toes in the mud
didn't feel as good as it should have.
Being filthy rich would be nice.
I have lost my way.

I once loved a goat like you.
Took him home.
Named him Goat.

Posted by Rock Heals at January 25, 2006 12:00 AM