Barnyard Philosophers

Cynic and Despair were easy
cows to milk, Hope as much a hen

as rooster, as much the matted
straw as dawn. The ragged dog

trolled field to field to drag Complacence
back. He nipped its shanks and made her

stay. Utility resented
haylofts, the rusty hoist. It made

a break for Faith, a long flight out
the uppermost door of the barn,

and nearly died. Stoic farted
in a stall. Phenomena lay

still among the pigeons. Dada
oinked. All through the night, Socratic

scribbled koans on his hand. By
morning, everything turned his way,

as in a church, and he found himself
doing this thing and that, pitchfork

to truck bed, oil pan to ditch. All
day the whistles came out of him,

those notes the cows do not have lungs
for, shrill enough for bats. One day,

Antithesis reminded, we’ll
go to sleep and not wake up. Wake up,

Existential snapped back, the couch
burns blue around you.