I’ve got
no excuses
for my mistakes
or the awkwardness
that falters inside me
or the yolk yellow prevaricatorial
nature of my emerging posture as a goat
inhabiting the corner of a building
and working toward a distant conclusion
where the human infection that is
consuming me will either fade into remission
or devour me completely.
In the corner of a building
I ply my trade. The humans swarm
like a virus, consuming any available meat
and buzzing their sick appreciation
to themselves and to each other.
And I am completely alone as the clock
ticks three decades gone and I eat
a burrito to celebrate and drink a
Dr. Pepper with time to kill on a busy day.
