Not A Single One Poem by Robert Rorabeck

Don't you have time
to enjoy the rays of
the sun?
Grazing the decapitated
field,
you could be anyone of
your brethren:
Sometimes you take the
lead through the
barbed-wire suicide slums,
but where are you
leading them,
the stray-hoofed pack
conjoined by the space of
your neighborhood,
the leather you show off,
the suits of your field
your children grow into.

Your handlers,
the greater things
that skip-a-rope between the
space of your valueless horns,
the shoot you follow
as if through
a ray of sun,
instinctual and barren,
you have many good days,
but do not own a
single one.