Liberties

Every day putting a fresh spin on how he maintains that shit-eating grin despite his notoriously thin skin. The quagmire of what-might-have-been. Every day shouldering an invisible tray. Hello, hello. Olé, Olé. His musing on how best to waylay a hiker passing through a field of Galloways. Every day aiming to swat the single fly that keeps tying and untying a knot before taking another potshot. Rolling through the Krishna Valley like a juggernaut. Every day trying to err on the side of standing firm. Foursquare. The singlemindedness of a Berber about to take out a French Legionnaire. Every day surviving by dint of three of his four hooves being knapped flint. Hanging out the bloody bandage of his, hint hint, barber’s pole. His stick of peppermint. Every day his hoofprints in the sand-strewn park have enclosed so much in quotation marks. Not even Job or Abraham, hark hark, is a patch on our patriarch. Every day the holy show of leather dyed robin egg blue by Tiffany & Co. Areas strictly off-limits? Strictly no-go? The wilds of Connaught. The stockyards of Chicago. Every day rising at 5 am, determined to stem the flow of misinformation from the well at Zem-Zem. His dangle-straw from a crib in Bethlehem. Every day fighting shy of the possibility his eye is a shellac-gouge from an old hi-fi. His helmet appropriated from a samurai. Every day the mob threatening a hatchet job. Their hobbling across concrete. Hobnob. Hobnob. Their sidelong glances at his thingmabob. Every day the urge to rut at odds with his yen for whole grain calf nuts. The “my-my” and “tut-tut” of that bevy of cattle at their scuttlebutt. Every day his own cow’s lick even more at odds with his almighty mick. How come his second cousin, the dik-dik, gets