better pounce on it

when climbing the mountains with goats,
expect to wake from your dream
with the scent of musk clinging to
your pubic hair, the oily hair
of nannies and billies
having left a bit of residue
behind on your skin,
your fingertips,
your flared-out protesting nostrils.
you will not like these
smells clinging to you,
and the scent of
goats high in the mountains
was much more goat, and
much less mountain,
than you'd expected.
**
as the cattle cross the
road deep in the country,
and you sit there waiting
for them to hurry
up and get across, you
ask yourself why
you went for this drive
in the country in the
first place. you're in
unfamiliar territory here.
perhaps you're even lost.
the cattle take
their time, and
when finally a farmer
at the end of the line
shoos the last cow
on across, and waves
a friendly enough little
wave at you,
you are so glad
to be on your way,
that you almost
forget where you're
on your way back to.
**
later that night, sitting
down to dinner with your family,
you suddenly want to
see your
sexy teenage son completely naked,
and are almost about to
suggest that he take off his clothes,
then and there, and
show you, and everyone there,
what is surely his great big smooth
dick,
when
you stop those words,
and fill your mouth with
mashed potatoes, instead.
everyone looks at you a bit
funny,
and no, it's not just
your imagination.
**
adrift, the sky down
below you is filled with
birds -- crows, and sparrows,
and every size in between.
it's peaceful here.
you want to stay.

--Carl Miller Daniels (This poem also appears in my book Be Kind to Strangers, published by BareBackPress in 2015. Before that, it appeared in BareBack Magazine, September 2014.)