This poem is a cow

Stalking trash trucks on weekends, she
waits by signals. Men reading their
morning paper or men midstride their morning
jog or men trailing a corpse in their mourning white
lift her skirt, slide a pointed finger in
between her cheeks, then out, then kiss it
reverently. In bars and coffee shops, she has heard:
This is no age for holiness. Do these men know this,
she wonders. She ambles away from them. They
thrust plantains into her protesting mouth.
They watch her swallow.