Little Bull

The . . . poor . . . little . . . bull
behind the gate calls to
cows knee-deep in clover,
the wind smells of cows in clover,
the sun stains his back with
sweat where flies gather,
he bangs the gate, barbed wire
sinks its teeth into his hide
and he bleeds, down in the dust
he kneels and bawls, red-eyed,
furious, his groin aches and swells,
the steel sings in its muscle,
he’s just a little black bull
butting his horns against the
damnedest bull-tight gate
you ever saw.