Instinct
Instinct
Hunched, obsidian-eyed, and inches
from the curb—one paw gone, the other
tight as a clasp—
the animal,
unblinking, breathes
in little rasps. Why isn't he shaking,
crawling beneath the settled leaves,
or moving toward
the gutter, where
it's quiet under
the sidewalk's shadow? Cars keep missing
him. I think a rock will do.
A skull that small
will crack. Nothing
ironic in
this thought, or in the five-pound block
of cement I find, imagine is
a stone. To let
him live seems coldly
primitive.
But when I'm ready I can't find him;
I jump at stirring leaves; I pass
a shadow, no,
a flat, gray thing
which the wind rustles
and seems to animate again.
I place the block back on the ground.
It's for the best—
this instinct teased,
then put to rest.
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