Sunday, February 21, 2016

Somebody Must Know

I tend my goats in the pasture next beyond the pass.
How can I be two places at once?
The old man built a big house on the hillside
outside town. He went up to the mountain
to visit the cloud everybody talks about.
The inhabitants in our town stand
in doorways hand furled over eyes, watching.
Nobody I know made clear what was going on.
The old man must carry on at length,
as long as he'd stay in that cloud.
I had milking to do.  Barn chores.
I cared for my flock, grazing in the pasture.

Oh, those high happenings!  Who has the time?
A wonder anybody ever gets anything done!
They get fascinated away. But I suppose they must.
They're always building, dickering—sinning, too.

Everyone rumored enough about that old man.
You'd swear he's up to something.
And therefore, you'd think you'd notice a change.
But everything stayed the same. Same mysteries,
misunderstandings, same muddle, same funky darkness.

I don't know. Never did change far as I can see.
Really, how could the old man know anything?
He was forever up in that cloud
and I am in the pasture knee deep in clover,
goats damp with milk for us to live on.
My feet stuck in the ground.  The clouds pass.
The same milk feeds good and evil.  I don't know.

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