Mooncow

Hownow, moocow? Whence the spirit, wherefore the milk? Ym and yr designer sweatpants; udder disappointment. Tools of the trade made to split with blade, I spit and I shit and I bit my maid. Why do you care where the moon hits your eye? Is not the same moon still above in the sky? The light is not his, my moocow's not mine, the grass that she eats lives off the sun's shine. I listen for clues in the grey noise of spring, but autumn's since come and the cowbell won't ring. My moocow sits and sighs and sings, mooing and mawing and mewing the things that she lost but then found with her silver-backed months and the rise and the fall when my moocow walked up but couldn't come down.