Poem for Marc Chagall

by June 7, 2022 0 comments

When I did my job
I had this goat
to talk to.
His fur glowed
an intense blue
bluer than any
out in Texas,
I just didn’t wish
to embarrass him
so didn’t speak
about color.
Did he fall into
a bucket of paint?
The goat could
whistle melodies
from Beethoven
while doing the
two-step, I felt
lackluster around
the goat with
my shopping cart
full of aluminum cans
in black plastic bags
that I recycled for
cash. I ALWAYS
gave him a few
to munch on since
he wasn’t into
eating the moon
and the crunching
sound made us
laugh as we
settled to sleep
in our homeless
camp above
Quiet Creek.

editors note:

There’s no gettin’ your goat if you already got one. – mh clay

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