thin as a banker's smile,
black cashmere.
In your pen,
your campy prop,
black ink.
And in your fridge,
bare as a Detroit warehouse,
black milk.
Well what the hell is that?
Really honey,
what's in that shit? Irony?
You smile like you know the joke.
The cow, you say,
was making a statement about post-modern physical art.
The cow was sick
of not having command over her own body,
and so this is her finger at the world.
If you believe that, you should write it, I say,
but you just smirk and add a tab to the orange juice, stylishly blue.
Moo.
_____
for the mini-challenge at Real Toads.