The Man Who Dreamed of Cows

He could have dreamed of Martha,
little Sue and Peter, rowing out
to talk of "self-abuse,"
Alice late for work with Sigmund
and the Great Wazzoo,
the giant squid and did he fear to touch them,
soft and warm, feel their breasts
press up against his chest?

He could have stood naked before us
his teeth falling out one by one
"autobus" forming on his lips
and his hand wet, peeing in the
bushes while rocks begin to move and
roll toward him, backing up into the mouth
of feotid breath and big whiskers

He could have done better.
He could have thought
or stumpled over his fear of sin,
recognized that forgotten mole on the
side of his rotten face

He could have even confessed
the Big One with his mother and Johnson
and what he thought about his own ugly future
and his own ugly fears about Molly
and his self-denial and self-doubt and
why he hated that peculiar odor
after the camp meeting
in a world with disease and oil slicks
and pricks and shit like that.

But he only dreamed of cows,
and even he knew what that meant.

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