|03-09-2005, 07:26 PM||#21|
Now you know why we call our children "kids!" They are stubborn, like to butt heads, and poop where ever they want.
Well, at least my kids do.
eggs don't come from chickens. They come from the store, just like milk!
|03-09-2005, 09:09 PM||#22|
The Goats of Summer
The clink of steel diggers rammed
on sandstone makes pet goats easy to despise.
Without a fence, they'd baaa and billy leap
wet fields of oats or cotton, nothing sacred
to their hooves and nibbling lips.
Leaning the diggers in a hole of stubborn rock,
I wipe a wet bandana on my face
and sling my Stetson like a watering can.
Standing still at noon, I feel my boot soles burn.
What madness made me believe the silly song
of barkers selling goats, kids for kids,
the catchy phrase erasing the smell
of pellets, the wide-eyed grin of baby goats
and children tugging my sleeve
more whimsy than a man could stand.
So now, days later, where are they,
those knee-high babies nudging for bottles?
What are these hip-high goats with deep voices,
butting the back yard gate until it warps?
Where are my kids who promised to clean
the daily straw reeking like Noah's privy?
Tugging old leather gloves back on,
pliable with sweat like second skin,
I lift the double blades and drive them down
like breaking teeth, squeeze out the broken stone
and go on digging, rolls of barbered wire
waiting to be strung, a dozen more dry holes
before there'll be some order to this dirt.
-Walter McDonald, Texas poet
(published in Atlantic monthly quite a while back)
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