parasitic
poached goats
are not for
petting zoos
but that has never
stopped them
before

and of course
there’s cream
in a little hollow
place tucked
so very deep
inside them
(almost like custard I’d wager)

they know
all about
the lobster
and how she prefers
to lay her
eggs in a
tight cluster
all grape-like
on the
underside of the
algal frond

where I dream
that we too
might someday
find cool shelter
from the plastic bits
that rain down from
the tortured sky
the 3-D printers
that spit
out pink toes
and little
baby corn
holders

Macerate a few herbs aromatic
fennel, thyme, cardamom
inside the fifties housewife’s head scarf
before she stows away on the back of
an air force drone
to the old country
where her mother’s
slaughtering a goat with a
broken Coke bottle
and her father’s learning how
to dog proof the Christmas tree
No one’s taken off their boots in months
and when she passes them the shoe horn
it’s all over as soon as the landlord says
“Please, no ethnic cooking”
and you foolishly reply

“It’s just hard boiled eggs”