Raccoons
 


They come at night
in twos or threes,
over the wall
beyond the trees.
 
Across the grass
they make their way
since no lone cat
keeps them at bay.
 
Her dry food is
their common goal;
it’s on the porch
and in a bowl.
 
The porch is screened.
How to get in?
Just as cat does,
to her chagrin.
 
So, each in turn
pops through the pet-
door, daring cat
to pose a threat.
 
Their number, size
give poor cat pause.
What can she do
with no front claws?
 
Not one raccoon
needs any chair
to jump up on
the table there.
 
Cat watches them
devour her food,
use their bare hands,
prove rude and crude.
 
She lolls upon
a bench nearby,
peeks at the thieves
with either eye.
 
Pretending to
care not a whit,
she waits until
they choose to quit.
 
And soon they do,
for there’s a noise!
A human comes,
with air-soft toys!
 
All raccoons want
to leave right now.
The question then
becomes, but how?
 
The stress is such
that each forgets
the ready door
installed for pets.
 
And then one sees
a small screen-hole,
just large enough
for some caught mole.
 
Nevertheless,
they burst right through,
escaping what
should be their due.
 
The human goes
back to his bed.
The cat remains
awake, unfed.

Jane Blanchard

If you have any thoughts on this poem, Jane Blanchard  would be pleased to hear them.