The Goat Farm Goats

Lyrics

Foster Street hums with the tires.
The air is warm hay and a memory of diesel.
I put my hands on the wire of the fence.
Just to watch them work.
No names on the program.
No artist statements tacked to the wall.
Just the steady, sideways grind of the jaw.
Ripping up weeds between rusted I-beams.
Their eyes are yellow slits, horizontal and calm.
They see the world in a long, narrow frame.
They see the kudzu, they see the grain.
They don't see the gallery opening at seven.
Or the funding crisis, or the reviews.
And this is their only critique:
Is it edible?
Will it sustain?
The most honest question on the Westside.
They are the curators of the overgrown lots.
The keepers of the quiet, forgotten spots.
And they are not impressed.
Not in the slightest.
A father lifts his daughter to the fence.
Her small hand pushes through the wire mesh.
Fingers touch coarse, dusty fur.
"He likes it," she whispers.
And maybe he does.
Or maybe he is just waiting for her to be a salt lick.
The parents take pictures for a social media post.
"Art and agriculture," the caption will boast.
The goat just blinks its slow, rectangular blink.
And turns back to a patch of clover.
And this is their only critique:
Is it edible?
Will it sustain?
The most honest question on the Westside.
They are the curators of the overgrown lots.
The keepers of the quiet, forgotten spots.
And they are not impressed.
Not in the slightest.
Someone, sometime, made a decision.
Said, "This old cotton gin factory needs a vision.
It needs painters and welders and dancers in halls.
And it needs... these."
A herd of silent, bearded philosophers.
To remind us what the ground is for.
To keep the whole grand project from floating away
On a cloud of ambition and Chardonnay.
The sun goes down behind the brickworks.
Their work is never done.
The last light catches the dust in their coats.
I take my hands off the fence.
The bell clinks one last time.
Goodnight, you honest old souls.