Poem Poutpourri

Dredging the archives, intermittently contributing to them.

Squirrel Repellant

Spraying under the Dogwood

in my backyard, I spot a crow

pecking the soggy, rotten

donut some twenty feet up

where a past owner botched

a pruning job years ago.

Two days in a row I’ve seen this

crow. I unscrew the bottle top

and cock my arm, but trip on

a root popping through my lawn;

the crow’s best friend he never knows

he has because I was a little

league pitcher and I threw strikes.

My temple hits the root and

the bottle empties down my collar,

across my tie and jacket.

Squirrel repellent fills my

nostrils. It consumes me. There is

nothing in my life except squirrel repellant.

I’m surprised to discover how

fond I am of the scent of coyote

urine. I am no squirrel;

I may be a coyote.

I may hunt house cats and

live in blackberry brambles

on the edge of golf courses. I

may trot through the streets

at night and hide behind

parked cars when headlights approach.

I may be trapped in a place

I can’t control, but I’m clever and

I adapt and thrive, like the crow, but

in secret, in the dark. Much more

clever than the crow. My cheeks flush.

my fingers and toes tingle. I wet myself.

I laugh, flop my arms in the grass,

and howl at the morning sun rising.

The crow, he’s still perched

in the dogwood. I can’t see him, but

he's there, watching, and

tomorrow he will peck the rotten bark again.