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Sat upon an empty box of Cheerios and settled |
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Through the cracks of wooden floors |
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Forming little cone mountains |
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Fertile soil on which to rest |
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My dirty little white stone |
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With dimples to keep it from |
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Rolling down the dusty trail |
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Brought such straight rows |
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Like corn and peas |
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And foot caves in cold dirt |
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And the sore throat that follows |
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"Everyone always knew it ended this way, |
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But I still don't understand why... |
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Milking the cow didn't work." |
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She was warm and had a rough |
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Mus-cular tongue for licking |
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Salt blocks and brown eyes like a cow |
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And her name was Bossy. |
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We didn't eat her I don't think |
