Who
Made Thee
Some lambs
luck out if grown
to colliding rams or producing
ewes rather than early
chops, mint-sprigged.
Snort
of existence steadies older
eyes to peace and atones
for the trouble of being shorn
in the middle of green gambol.
Mature
they butt and huddle
until properly obese
by standards of two-car
cost accountants.
Orderly
stunned by periodic
mallet, in last loll
they redden precisely spaced
hooks with their spattering bronchi.
Their
leaps now flat
on monitor, they are mutton.
From platters of selected
restaurants their final eyes
look up at you, liquid.
Copyright © 2003 Ben Passikoff