Sara Miller

I love him, you know. He's a goat
that eats the leaves off a prize rosebush,
stinks up the garden, and butts his head
softly against your thigh when you appear
with a stick in hand. I love him, a bleating sheep
that knows he's been bad, baaaad. Love the way
he prowls at night, caterwauling in allies.
The way he's drawn to women
who turn up their noses at him, the way
he slips between their knees and curls
around their feet at night. He's no half-tame cat-
he's a dog; he'll eat from your fingers.
But don't forget he's homed in on the smell
of my kitchen, has one ear cocked for my call.