Appeasement

“I’m sorry I shot
those two raccoons
last year,”
I tell her.

“But you’re not sorry
about the hawk…”

I think about it.

“No, I’m not.”

It never knew
what hit it.
One minute it was alive,
the next it was nothing.
No trembling,
no death-throes,
as in the case of the raccoons,
not even a shudder.
It just remained
perched there
atop my favorite chicken.
My dead chicken.

Son-of-a-bitch!

We are looking out the glass doors
into the dark on the deck.
A raccoon
on its haunches
is watching us
in the kitchen,
its arms outstretched,
its eyes
as sad as Zorba.

In the dark behind it,
sits the coop I built,
locked up tight
against the coons,
the skunks,
and the weasels.

I toss him
some stale hamburger buns,
An offering
of sorts.

They were supposed to be
for the chickens.

02/15/08