Barbara Johnson – Sheepdung Estates Poopy Poem

Barbara Johnson

Sheepdung Estates Poopy Poem

The wind exhaled, and two oak leaves skipped over each other trying to get my attention dancing uphill vain The woodpecker didn’t give audacious dancing leaves what I gave them my glancing admiration He ignored them and continued knocking on the door to the tree politely and then less so annoyed and demanding breakfast the way I and my carefully chosen companions demand fried potatoes with green bell peppers and a quality cup of coffee on Valencia Street San Francisco Saturday morning Excuse me, miss Do you have soy milk for my coffee? I’m lactose intolerant Fat flies also paid boastful leaves no mind They too were looking for breakfast Loitering, awaiting handouts messy and unshowered no Street Sheets for sale just give me a quarter if you’ve got one handy a dollar would be even better and did you really, and are we to understand correctly that you just this morning picked up your dog’s shit in a plastic bag? And threw that bag of shit away? You really didn’t need to do that We would prefer you didn’t We are, after all, Flies The dog didn’t notice any performing leaves On City-furlough, he was a nose followed by tangled fur and enough muscle to carry him along a thousand channels to quivering brain tail electric and all alight surely a jackrabbit, sweet smelling of brown earthy fur on this ground just a short time ago and a fox squirrel, maybe, which I could find and conquer with jaws and teeth if given half a chance And furthermore, some mule deer have been browsing around here lately or I’m much mistaken The wind paused for breath halfway up the hill The leaves, with no audience, lay down sullenly and returned to quietude Brown, dry oak leaves Six months at least since they stopped their own breathing, let go of the branch that fed them And what, indeed, but a dead thing— two dead things— long since given up all need for breakfast Who but creatures such as these leaves could have the impudence to dance uphill at no other prompting than the wind’s? We are, all the rest of us, too hungry to be audacious

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