A French cheese shop opens on Spring Street.
In the window is a life-size sculpture of a cow.
The black and white puddled spots and giant udder
are startling at night, illuminated by florescent lights. 

An old man and his small dog stand out front.
The man is laughing at his dog,
wants passersby to see the pooch yap, yapping at the cow.
I recall another bovine, years ago, bolting 
from a slaughterhouse in Queens, a crowd careening behind.
I wondered if they were trying to catch her, or also searching 
for a crack to crash through and escape it all.
The plaster cow, her fixed head tilted toward the moon.