In Your Hole

You went there to think.
First it was just a lounge
chair out on the plains,
in the summer.  Where you
could go to watch storms
and to feel the wind blow.
Where you could see
more colors than one.

Then you were sitting on
the ground.  It was warm
where the sun had been,
cold if you stayed through
the night.  But quiet, and
you set up camp there.
Just you and grass and insects.

For some reason, maybe
your curiousity about prairie
dog tunnels, you started to dig
into the ground.  A mound of
dirt gathered on the plains
as you worked your way below.

This mound was good earth,
fertile and fluffy.  The highest
point of elevation for miles.
It caughts seeds on the breeze
and soon you had a garden.   Corn,
tomatoes, yams, carrots, beans.
You hunted red meat; the only
time you ever came above ground.

We came to get you.   For years
you did not acknowledge us.   We
learned to read weather in the
clouds and ate happily from
your garden. We followed you
on hunts and feasted on the
carcasses you left behind.

Without tools we could not
get you out.   We had to lure
you; leave little offerings
of vice redolent of the city
and its new century.  At first
you took this treaty only
at night.  So we began to set traps.
You fell for them but always
escaped within hours.   We set
more.  And more.  And more.

Until one day your hole
was filled back in
with your garden
and only the yams

Leave a Reply

Fill in your details below or click an icon to log in: Logo

You are commenting using your account. Log Out /  Change )

Twitter picture

You are commenting using your Twitter account. Log Out /  Change )

Facebook photo

You are commenting using your Facebook account. Log Out /  Change )

Connecting to %s