It could be any night, it just happens to be Tuesday
in the trailer outside Jerry’s
I remark — as he slices her open —
I’m missing Grey’s Anatomy.
Her guts pop out like balloons,
not as neat as the text books in college.

Long enough since her water broke,
hope’s gone home to bed.
(Where I want to be.)
Reaching her womb, he pauses …
blank expression on his face.
Then he sneezes and yanks out the lamb.
Silent, but weak.

The kettle in my kitchen boils,
stream that episode of Grey’s as I,
the Pyrex jug and bottle head down to the shed.
Place the lamb on my lap, kissing his forehead —
C’mon little man, don’t deny me the satisfaction
of taking your testicles.  

He’s slow at first, but soon finds second gear
and discover he’s the stomach to back it up.
Eyes loud. Tiny tongue accelerating …
*****, pucks the *** write off the bottle.

Delays in delivery deprive oxygen.
Sometimes you get away with it.
I’ve seen this before. There’s jelly
in his legs that will never set;
despite all his attempts he’ll never stand.
Whenever I can bring myself
I’ll have to get the sledge.

You can’t even imagine the mess
the first time, now
I use a length of plastic
from the silage pit.
Wrap. Whack.

Amen little man.