Joy is measured in calories, steam curls, dinner bells hollering
to bulls and dairy cows while snowmen remain in skies
as we see morning breathe out open mouth kisses, ready
for what comes out of open ovens. All are welcome, none are natives.
Before fences, we settled wherever hooves led, before we slept
for a time–dead for all time, supper to red stars, our herds grew large.
Don’t be small, be big, gracefully, not as pointless as flightless
birds that won’t escape my molars, or my thanks, that should
be as silent as suspicious children on mother’s milk, in small chairs,
chewing small bites, devouring gratitude before salad and open legs
like open palms on both sides, thanking goodness in collected mass,
we bless messes, leftovers, what’s missed when we close eyes
to graze near wolves.
Be kind to all kinds.
We’re all dead meat after tomorrow.