Something in me is not human:
a large bull lives deep inside.
Slowly it saunters across my awareness,
tail swooshing and grazing with gentle strides.
Generally peaceful, the bull in my brain
dreams of great green pastures and huge cow-harems.
It is not at all concerned with philosophy
or worried that will someday become hamburger meat.
Chewing cud leisurely as calves frolic by,
the bull has a serenity the human in me envies.
Alas, reality is seldom idyllic:
when the price is right,
this magnificent creature will be slaughtered,
chopped up, frozen, wrapped in cellophane,
then picked up by a bovine consumer
"What is for dinner tonight?"