It was a cold fall farm morning
the kind where
you see everyone’s last breath
the cow in the barn,
pulled up from the straw
by the nose,
the steam rising up and disappearing
god knows where.
….
I was 9 or 10 years old
enthralled by Mr. Sparling’s
Popeye like forearms and dark beard
watching as he
put a bullet into the cow,
the cow just standing there
screaming, screaming
like cows scream.
…
Mr. Sparling slowly walking over to
the barn door
like this wasn’t the first time
nor the last
walking back with an axe
in his right hand
then lifting it and smacking it
backside up into
the cow’s forehead,
the cow kneeling down and
with a few more Viking style whacks
rolling over silent .
…
Now many years and many deaths later
thinking of this
of Layton’s bull calf too
thinking of
my own time and space
and that
there are no winners.
Go ask Cesar.
Go ask Marilyn.
Go ask a card dealer.
Go ask a grave digger.
Go ask a poet.
…
Tonight when I watch
the news
the body bags, the car wrecks,
the heavy eye shadow
on the newscaster,
when I watch all that
like Li Po
I’ll drink my wine
and laugh from the belly
and dream of my
pink row boat in the sky.