I Am Spirit. I Am Flesh.

A barren tale of an empty face

engrossed with each single blade of grass

between tic and toc of the clock

until he goes trekking through the sod.

Soon to be a memory that was once a child’s calf

4H winner for best prime flesh.

But one dusk in the maze of barns

the blue ribbon prize counted, weighed,

his tour of the public stare is ended.

His pilgrimage to the primal purpose

stockyard hell

shipped by ex-Mayflower® truck.

Sons, daughters, daughters, sons

grandchildren, nobody cares

distant as a photograph

and death, the ghostly raven

waits as the lamp wick of life

shortens with each drawn breath.

The moon fills flush, like

the old ghost in flesh

without a blues song written.

His death near, black coat, blank face

there he stands, born to be condemned, fate

39¢ cheese burgers, Sundays

at McDonald's®.

(By Richard Leon Foss© with permission)