Only in my 50’s did I learn how the goat had got its own back, and mine.
Thanks to a recent Kate Foley workshop on Taste and see for provoking this poem.
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A plaintive bleat from a neighbour
“The billy goat’s got out!”
told him he would stink again
from tackling the rank lewdness
of the devious vile escaper.
They grappled in gardens
just him and the billy
jeered on by bystanders
beyond range of the stench.
Those broad bean eyes
mocked the jailer in silence
as his horns were clove hitched
for the slow parade home.
A sly kick from the lad
forced him back in the pen
but the last thrust was the goat’s
as his smell on the milk
meant the boy never drank it,
and that calcium absence
curdled curve in his spine.
