Moonless night. Perhaps New Moon?
I hold no calendar to confirm.
Out without my smartphone, disconnected
to a reason, thank you.
Clover and wild onion spongysoft
beneath my steel-toed work shoes —
after shift in the deep night, shallow morning.
Only the sounds of distant traffic:
a train a mile away sounds of electric whale;
a bustle in a hedgerow ten meters north.
Last thing I need, a skunk with anxiety.
Now my head is arguing with me:
was it Hughs or Lowell? Skunk Hour?
Wasn’t Frost, we’re certain. Lowell, then.
Why does Hughs even suggest himself?
Eliot keeps his cat out of the fog, no option.

I arrest myself, internal argument a stratagem:
let the skunk go its furry way,
perhaps tomorrow we’ll bring a torch.

dmpitchford 3/14/2024