The weary cow barely made the barn
and the farmer cleaned her withered udder
with little hope; but lo, a few drops,
a cupful, and at last a carton
of this Spartan beverage —
tempting, as self-flagellation is tempting.
Skim milk, reconstituted perhaps
from the dried granules, the little milk seeds
we distribute to developing nations
when what they need is pure butterfat
that lines the soul like a nest,
that recalls the sun, summer meadows . . .
buttercups . . . butterflies . . .
Forget summer. The doctor hands you a stern menu
and the brilliant little lamps of pleasure
burn out one by one, irreplaceable.
Years stretch ahead, lean and dim,
like so many glasses of skim milk,
and the sad old cow looks up sympathetically,
her mouth full of thistles.