The Animal

The suddenness of it all,
the coyote in the dumpster
behind the Dollar Tree
jumping out of it,
fleeing the human,
the goofy talking kids he ran between,
making them scream,
weaving across the highway,
missing speeding grills
by mere inches,
made it into the deep brush
grown up around the railroad tracks,
on fire at this time of day
with the dying sun,
and there he disappeared.
It is phenomenal
to be alive
at the same time
as things that struggle for survival
with this much style,
using the spark
of the specific gift,
the singers,
the screamers,
the runners like him,
or those who wrench
the horrible facts of existence
into stories
that buoy us as the gods
once lifted us, when we needed them.
We have a crazy gene
or two for this,
coded to move
us to the tune
of well-played bullshit
of any sort that’s geared
to survival,
though it makes us
crazy, though it
probably means
nothing but what
it is, it still is,
and always
our desire for it,
to be a part
of it, weirdly
comes on
and at us
and all we can say is,

Hell yes,
I want to be
a coyote too.


Drive past a late summer match on a blue tennis court under shade
of a park’s greenest trees. Green shadows on a tennis court
of bluest blue, where young plays old, old plays young,
before it maybe happens, a quiet game elsewhere,
in other shadows, meshes of the afternoon, not hard fought
on either side really, since it’s nothing, nobody for keeps.