The poet thinks:
How delightful! A treasure trove unearthed!
Oh! Look at his little hands trembling
in anticipation.

The cynic thinks:
Oh God! Animism -- how sickeningly sentimental.
What do poets know of survival?

The squirrel thinks:
food
fuck
nest...
fuck!
more food

I do not! Forward thinking
is an extravagance I can't afford. Besides
The Good Lord has provided me
with this copious cache of acorns.

Point taken.
The squirrel thinks:
What do cynics know of anthropomorphism?

Inferred apology accepted--no hard feelings?

~

The following day, on driving
to his weekly environmental workshop,
the poet screeches to a halt.
Before him, quashed against the adamantine
tarmac, Sqwiffy's mangled corpse bleeds
pathos like a broken rainbow.
Distraught, he gathers up the subject,
cradles it, then places it lovingly
in the empty child seat.

The cynic yawns, deletes a slew
of voice messages, and retreats
to the birth of her RTA headline.

Sqwiffy smells.

~

That evening, the poet glides
across the parquet floor, manoeuvres
into his favourite leather armchair
and lights the proverbial Optiflame
fire. Eyes aglow, hands atremble, he
pens a eulogy between sips
of venison soup. A tear trickles
down his chin.

The cynic masturbates at the thought
of promotion.

The squirrel's young die.

Life goes on.

12/06/2011

Posted on 12/06/2011
Copyright © 2024 Laura Doom