Number 534 Poem by Saiom Shriver

When he was just a baby
boy bull, they brought
out the knives, needles,
and red hot branding
irons.. to cut off
his testicles,
burn him with their
brand, and needle
him full of antibiotics
and toxic vaccines.
A few months later
they stapled his ears
with numbered tags.
Now he is called a steer,
not a bull, for his identity
is defined by the mutilation
they performed.
He was not a living
being to them, but
an object to be
numbered.
His eyes were bloodshot
from the irritation
of sleeping on his
own and others' fecal
matter. If he had gone
East, he might have
been in an open slatted
truck as the sub zero
temperatures whipped
through the Pennsylvania
mountains. Or if he
were transported
in the summer, he might
have died of thirst,
or been smashed
in the stampede
inside the trailer
as the terrorized
animals bellowed.
At the slaughterhouse
at age 14 months
he was shot
in the head with
a huge metal cylinder.
Because he was luckier
than some, the metal bolt worked
and he was not skinned alive.
As his spirit soared to God,
his body's
weight dropped from
1200 lbs or so to under 800
for they cut off his head
and chopped off his hooves and
tail.