Little Dogies

An Angus steer
swung its head around the corner
of the door into the bedroom.
It stared at me, black glass eyes
catching spots of tiny white from the window.

I got out of bed and patted it, it
seemed so calm, smooth hide rippling
under my hand.

I could have slaughtered it and eaten like a king
for months but
when it turned and went out into the yard
through a door I’d obviously
forgotten to lock last night, I followed as far as the porch

and from there
watched it join its herdmates grazing
on the meager back lawn.

I’m no cowboy, I decided then and there,
I’ve got no reason to try and control
such a thing as a herd of cattle that know enough
to visit me when I am at my least warlike.

If I had woken up at some point and realized
that a piece of a dream was presenting itself to me, its neck
and veins exposed, I do not know what might have been:

I might have lived longer and fatter on the leavings,
the marbled flesh, the creamy waxen lines in the red muscle;

but I would never have seen where this came from:
the lawn I had neglected allowing sustenance for mouths
I couldn’t understand except as fodder.

The cattle moved off down the driveway into the street, and all I could do
was wave my hat at them. Git along, I said,
git along, it’s all misfortune here,
and none of your own. Go find another lawn to graze.
I’ll keep the door open for you.