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's not at concerned with philosophy
nor worried of becoming hamburger meat.

Chewing cud leisurely as calves frolic by,
the bull has a serenity my human part envies.

Alas, reality is seldom idyllic:
when the price is right,
this magnificent creature will be slaughtered,
chopped up, frozen, wrapped in cellophane,
then placed in a flimsy shopping cart
by bovine consumers wondering,
"What's for dinner tonight?"