by Chris Buchanan
Poetry, 2014

—

Our first date was in a field.
We were being quirky,
displaying our uniqueness
in a field.

Either side of a cow
we stood and made jokes,
tried to look natural, as easy
as it did:

this great slab of something,
chamois leather on shapeless
mass, like dropped cement
on stalks.

Its head was a bone shoebox
plastered with hard meat,
holding up a grinder
full of grass

and it got the job done.
We had a good time, laughed
and wetted our mouths
for the day.