THE SELFISH COWS

That round, mound, ground surrounds
and is secured by fence and hesitance.
Everyone is waiting for someone else to go,
but the cows mow.

They do not have a care
for our commuter vows,
so they mow what grows.
An observance of an ancestral gift:
what nature grows,
she mows.

What the cows do not know,
is that human stomachs growl.
It’s such a shame.
They seemed like such good-natured cows,
the only souls of the emerald industry.
Their dressed carcasses will be
a momentary luncheon litany,
a price upon price
for their lack of telepathy.

These mounds now turn to flat ground,
flat, fat ground.
I am bored.
They are gored.

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