The world is on fire.

I look outward from my couch.

The world has been watching me burn too.

Overworked, under-appreciated.

Diagnosed with the same issue.

How do we solve it?

No idea.

First,

I'll sit here, and write this poem.

And in the margins, paper

the morning paper

Shuffles

white surrender

folded, napkin like, legs

on the ottoman pullout

We write in bytes now

O's, 1's

and inkless lines

In the morning, lines

Ode to a Cow

July 16, 2024

Ungulates, ungulates, bifurcate now

Let your taxonomical heart be not troubled

It's not so bad being a cow

Mooove over here - Mooove over there

Give birth to be decaffeinated

Legless to be ground beef - Uncooked to be rare

Udderly preposterous

One stomach with four compartments

Ruminating with cud is not for the imposterous

So Ballet with Bessy

Or exercise with Elsie

Until you die of Borden - Until you are messy

A cow’s life is a life of rhyme

A cow’s life is a life of pleasure

Until you stay up pasture bedtime

wheels & steps legs fall flappy muscles & all

you rise again

strength like Hercules with a spirit of Athena

undeniable

you shine while wheels spin

a million colors bursting forth

a personal rainbow following you

beautifully different perfect as is.

maybe they say disabled but no labels will ever stick

lucky though every sunrise a world painted in rainbows

all thanks to you

glistening like diamonds do

how could you not be. . .

loved.

One day

I'll gather up these thoughts

and the trail of Time (lost)

a thing generational

like an heirloom pocket watch

the mechanism (still) runs

I'll find

we're back on track

and it will tick

where the heart once was

mechanical