Skunk

                "I myself am hell..."
                         -- Robert Lowell, "Skunk Hour"

He waddled, vested as a solemn preacher.
His head, proportioned like a sugar scoop,
poked about. Our dog, before we reach her,
barks and runs to guard the chicken coop,
and feels the claws and stink. Her courage flutters,
fails, collapses, as we run to help.
Our home with chalk-white walls and coal-black shutters,
reverberates with every sickened yelp.
This shadow lived here long before we came,
reminding us of all we cannot tame.

Royal Rhodes


If you have any thoughts about this poem,  Royal Rhodes would be pleased to hear them