A friend challenged me, “Sheep Stink!”
A pen may stink. Sheep crowded like detainees,
forced to lie in feces, will not be pleasing.
But 1507, who shall remain unnamed
as food not friend, stands out among ewes:
smooth, muscled, sleek, her two eyes
set at just the right slant, gold-filled.
Like any beauty, she holds herself aloof,
evades, cocks her head,
slowly turns her elegant neck, cuts her eyes
my way, if only a bit, for my appreciation.