A hand poured Human,
And a hand poured Human,
Roughly one thousand four hundred and sixty Earth days apart,
One has airplane metal with bullet holes,
One has feral powers,
Such as breathing in the dark.
I moved an entire field of something symbolic,
Just to see the trails of her development.
I found the tracks of an old fox,
Who knows very well where the hen sleeps,
But I found not a foxhole.
A few attempts, though,
Almost as if it were a bird,
Gross piles of vile, mud, and sticks,
A cocoon or two,
But nothing that fits a fox.
So, I regrew the field with something symbolic.
I placed my bullet-holed airplane metal in the shape of a teepee.
Came back in six years,
To find inside an alcoholic fox.
With six illegitimate fox foxies.
He’d forgotten the exact quadrants of the hen house,
And the warmth of the sun.
But the warmth of the sun forgot not him,
Not foxy.
And the warmth of the sun against my airplane metal,
Caused him to lose his fur.
I harvested the field again of something symbolic.
All that was left was a naked fox,
In an all too conspicuous metal teepee,
With six illegitimate furless fox foxies.
The next day the farmer spotted the metal teepee,
From his farmhouse bedroom window.
He shot and killed the fat, alcoholic furless fox,
Right through the bullet holes in my old metal airplane teepee.
The six furry fox babies tried to run,
But never learned.
They were stomped out with the butt of a gun.
Airplane huts fit not a fox,
Nor open fields a poet.
Do as the farmhand does,
Stay fit and furry for all of us.
About the Creator
R.M. Kamm
A confused sea-bearing cartographer.
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