A sheep’s fur.

As I sit on the toilet,
look out into the bedroom,
the fur rug’s sunning,
all curly and golden.
Who’s this creator sheep
that lived and made this?
Then gave it up with its hide besides?
Did it enjoy the sun while it grazed?
Was it ok with getting killed for meat?
Did it father any lambs?
Or was it milked many times?
How old was it when it’s led
to the place & had a bad day?

The rug was rained on yesterday.
Now it smelled like wet hay.
I don’t know you while you lived,
but I’m enjoying you nevertheless,
of your warmth & soft caress.
You probably don’t care,
I’m saying a little prayer.
Something comforting comes out of
someone being slaughtered.
It’s someone else’s life,
there’s only the fur that’s left.
It’s useful & has a price,
guess that’s all we can get.

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