Poetry

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Standing in a parking lot
on a cold, bare-branched night,
a soft fog showered down
from the lamp light
that a friend and I stood beneath.
Just speaking dream art talk,
my eyes lept over the wall
of my friend’s shoulder
to the sudden appearance of
a wild animal whose
eyes locked into mine.
Like a memory.
a fox.
It would have to
pierce through my friend
to get to me.
Still,
the bells of adrenaline
struck madly as
words slipped off my lips.
So I pointed to
the fancy-stepping creature.
My friend side-glanced
and spoke
“They don’t attack people.”
and picked my words
that I let fall
on the wet, black asphalt
and shot them
back down my throat.
With the security system
lever turned down
and the clanging stilled,
I watched it trot,
following the boundaries
of the sidewalk like a pedestrian.
From fight to flight
to peace and ease
with just a word
of just a truth
and a trust
in the word giver
that I am safe.

H. Stone © 2005

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