That's what we call him,
our yearling bull, joking
it would be a good name for a pub.
Every afternoon we hear him
making sounds no bull should
ever make, the moment he sees
your pickup pull into the driveway
and park outside the barn. He watches
from his pasture as you duck into
the shadowed doorway empty-handed.
He paces the fence and screams for you
until you emerge again, carrying
a plastic bucket full of grain.
He's partial to molasses sweet feed.
He's hefty for his age.
                                     And once
you're standing by his trough,
shaking that bucket, calling his name,
he'll break into a screaming gallop,
this black angus freight train
of a youngster who lives to see you
coming home each afternoon,
to eat sweet feed in late day sun
or freezing rain while you scratch
behind his dirty, hairy ears.
You're not like me—you wouldn't
turn and run. You're not afraid
of being trampled, of that one day
he might not put on the brakes in time.
But I'll never wait beside his trough
with a bucket in my hand, calling.
I'm partial to my unbroken bones.
I'm gimpy in both knees.
                                     And one
of us screaming is enough.


© by Susan Rooke.
Used here with the author's permission.