Staring at Goats
Don’t break the gaze
or disturb the concentration,
and don’t reverse slowly
and fall over;
the goats’ll get you
and they’ll forget
to let you go again,
and you’ll HAWWW
and HK-PRFASHAA
and a little gob of spit
will hit you
like a brick
shithouse.
Don’t let ‘em win,
‘cause this is a lingering instinct
you don’t even think about,
six billion years
of evolutionary biology
and you’re staring
at goats
and being stared at.
Personally,
I’m an old goat
in a new coat,
I’ve got the stubbornness
my species is renowned for.
I gaze at gay strangers
and make my own way,
with my four feet
leading me out into infinity,
and the farmers
shear sheep
and turn cows into beef
and I’m still easy,
but someone’s got my goat
and don’t I know it?
Now I’m choking
and hopeless,
eating feed
from the people I meet;
I chew cud
so you don’t have to.
