Goat, a poem

Goat.
Goat.
You could be a child's first word,
easy as dog, daddy.
Goat.
Poor man's lawn boy,
frisky pet,
reason to claim the buns
we pay for but never eat.

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

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.


Leslie F. Miller