a poem by ROBERT BEVERIDGE
We went to see the goats
in the tree-lined petting zoo
at Oglebay, near Wheeling. We sat,
her on my lap, by the shed.
week-old kids, adoring
parents snapping pictures.
My wife, some feet away, walking
to a pregnant goat, hand on stroller.
The goat, wide and wobbly, stopped
to listen, and bray in places;
two mothers over the backyard fence.
A kid, black and round,
approached us. I offered my hand;
the goat sniffed,
nibbled a finger here, palm there.
Small pink hand extended, blue eyes shining;
she stroked the black kid’s fur, touched
its grey nose. Sarah laughed,
buried her blonde head in my chest.
The kid climbed into Sarah’s lap,
curled up, allowed us this simple thing,
© Robert Beveridge, 2018