A Nation's Fodder
It waits for the sting of love.
That crack of a crop
or the slap with an open hand,
that tells the mind it’s needed
to perform at a moment’s whim
the destiny of an ass.
A stall awaits, or a lonely tree
to anchor the burdened beast
when not disposed. A time
for oats if they remember,
or weeds within short lead,
should they be too busy and forget.
It bays sometimes at night
awakened by the silence
and lightened load, or perhaps
the burning need for strap
on toughened hide; its brain,
a perverse and desperate slave.
It longs for the sun, but mostly
for them. Where have they gone?
It is not a question, but a plea.
The beast knows only its breeding.
It doesn’t ask, nor does it want.
It simply begs to be beaten.
- M.R. Behr
