From behind the wicked fence,
Staring, my mule
would eat hay.
I would spend hay
to own a creature, and trade
stares. She would
watch me raking leaves, watch
them fall again tomorrow,
would take an offered carrot to crunch,
flipping up her lip to show big teeth.
A mule
in my yard. Our nephew
would put his arms around
her neck and press
his face there. My mule
would know
a little more about us crazy people.
I would shovel
the shit at her feet,
looking for my bewilderment
in her face.
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