The Dropping

As the grays turn to greens
hillsides far-off where deer meet to mate
one street through an industrial park
remains a possibility for morning education
one man, alone, with his boot-prints
trying to understand what a chipmunk has left
back on the deck where a railing
is rotten due to rain and the ants’ hunger.
Such an unnoticeable unwrapped gift
but small enough to be seen, brought
to eyes for reasons, that size he
learns from, often finds calling to him
in some easily missed teaching way.

There, back on the pavement’s sandy shoulder
the walk he wishes would be endless
continues as that tiny shiny black mystery
overtakes mainly the Memory he prays to
and as usual it succumbs to Why?,
a favourite yet troublesome question
others once part of the past he’s ousted
found a way to actually criticize him for asking.
Isn’t it a shame at times our chuckles are missed,
that moment we all have lived through,
alone again with amusement, but few will feel
the smile formed by trying to figure out
when the word turd was first spoken or heard,
or if it still sits back on the railing
where he has fed her, yes, a female chipmunk
still nursing the young a wish won’t reveal.

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