Bossy

Sat upon an empty box of Cheerios and settled
Through the cracks of wooden floors
Forming little cone mountains

Fertile soil on which to rest
My dirty little white stone

With dimples to keep it from
Rolling down the dusty trail

Brought such straight rows
Like corn and peas
And foot caves in cold dirt

And the sore throat that follows

"Everyone always knew it ended this way
But I still don't understand why...
Milking the cow didn't work."

She was warm and had a rough
Mus-cular tongue for licking

Salt blocks and brown eyes like a cow
And her name was Bossy

We didn't eat her I don't think