Irritation over social expectations while on a riverside trail

To tread a path
that an hewn
clear breaks
my inattention,
and the toads
that croak satyr laughter
beckon me off.

A step from the path
steeps my boot
in bottle shards,

and there is no life here. I dip
closer to find the hooves
that hover out of sight,
snag my clothes and skin and hope
for return in the denser thicket,

and gasp at the ankle
scruff. Lichen
loops around and attaches
the beasts to limbs
that leak. The half-goats prance
and the limp
quarter-pieces grasp
sneakers or a liter
of Aquafina as they skid.

I ask that they plant ash
roots in my crown
and give me a goat hind
so that I too may laugh
at the flaccid life.

Now, I deal with matters
of meat, and drag
detritus through
the trees. It tires
to ridicule parts, so I squat
at a creek and spot a toad
that croaks, and I ask
to become like him.

I am now unable
to drag. Instead,.
my throat extends
and exhales
noise. Here I am closest
to that aspiration
and furthest from
home.