Keep Chewing

No matter what, keep chewing. I imagine this to be a constant banner in the sheep’s thoughts.

They ignore a barrage of frisbees and mini-golfers. Infestations of ice cream wrappers.
Their world is but bloat-bloated ticks
and dingleberries
that even the wind and rain can't tear away.

The sheep squadrons gnaw away at the hillside.
Preferring sweet grass to the coarse goarse
scented faintly of coconuts.
What use a turd-plagued sheep for tropical-scented bushes?
They scratch the tongue.

You walk among them.
Occasionally eating ice cream and attempting mini-golf.
You simply walk past with a bounding hound, hands in pockets, cursing the stiff wind.

One day I decide to join them,
wondering if there is a secret to be learned in endless crouching
and chewing
besides muddy knees and nits.
Perhaps you will then notice them,
us, the truth of me.

For hours I chew. And chew.
Wondering what to say to them:
When will it be time for a break?
What will we wash all this grass down with?
My knees and elbows sink deeper.
Stones poke my bones and my jaw gets sore.

I curl up beside the wooliest of the tribe and fall asleep.
No business brings you walking past.

Tomorrow I will leave them.
I know now that I don‘t belong here.
All this grass gives me gas.