Prowl

PROWL

Some of us would do far more 

than crawl on all fours for the chance

at seven, uninterrupted seasons 

of hoofing it in the wild, bent low 

enough to straighten some things out

without that incessant shout

to quit acting a fool and come inside

for dinner. Consider yourself a winner, 

O King, sampling autumn grass

while all the bullshit blows past

like an evening wind ruffling your hide, 

old givens dying like dandelions

on the flat spot where you lie

closer to the pulse of things. 

On behalf of us yet in exile, 

condemned to live with something half- 

starved inside and pawing 

at the locked door of our sternums,

no more cautionary tales, please.

Rip reason at the seams. Let out a roar.