“Three ovals and three lines,” I’m told.
But my squiggles won’t settle,
they won’t agree.
Wayward and wild,
horns flap; ears sprout
willy-nilly and floating
away from gravity.
Eyes end up kind of distant,
maybe just too kind.
My goat’s legs won’t behave
like normal legs should.
Its coat, shining like a suit of armour,
seems much too fancy to be real.
The nose comes out too cosy,
and somehow too nosy.
My goat refuses to come together
in any way that makes sense,
which is probably a goat after all.
*
Piers Haben grew up in Tipton and London and now lives on Pico Island in the Azores, where he writes poems surrounded by volcanoes, vineyards, goats and whales. His poetry has published by Ink Sweat and Tears and shortlisted for the Wolverhampton WoLF Poetry Prize. He still hasn’t learned to draw a goat properly.
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