10/26/2004

 

Death of a Capricorn

 

What is it about a goat

in a burlap bag

dangling from the handles of your bicycle

that makes me feel my own mortality?

 

Its head poking out,

mouth open in mid-assertion

that though you may ride

through the aromas and flies

of the open air market

it has not had its last word.

 

When I embark up that last

and most enigmatic of journeys,

let my chariot be more dignified

than scratchy bouncing burlap.

 

Or if not,

let me have the strength

of the goat—

            to not be silenced

            by the weight of indignity

            but rather speak my mind

            until the last.