sheep

Sheep I have read and published some of my old poems when the world was mint fresh and I believed in the lady in the lake, I saw her swim a moonlit night know I know she is not there, but a product of my feverish mind Sheep, they are dumb, think the pastor is a friend and his dog means well and even smells like an ewe but its fur is useless and full of ticks, can't eat grass to feed itself forever pestering the pastor wanting to show off when barking at the flock The sheep and the landscape are equally old seen in paintings of rustic art, which the pastor's wife excels at and tries to sell on Sunday after church, which the other pastor, the one who looks after human flock who think he is nice but hates them. Sheep no nothing of democracy, or security they prefer to be fenced in and only get nervous for a second when one of them is called to serve humans' need for meat as they can't count if there were 500 of them or 499 and they grazing go on and on. How lonely I have become among the olive trees since my dog died, I buried her in dark soil but dug her up, she is a skeleton in a black plastic liner in the back seat of the car, it stops me from feeling lonely when visiting the local whore. The road I drive on my way to the bar has been asphalted, flowers, by the roadside wilt covered in asphalt spray by careless workmen who inhale warm asphalt when not smoking self-rolled cigarettes and waiting for the day to end