it's a long walk with a rock in my shoe,
focal pain, digging - my sole a well
which you can tell, interrupts thought
that gives me want for some paws

im no closet tiger      but

(my walkin has shelves enough for narcissus:
        whirly tie racks, belt bins.
        windows with screens and a
        kitchenette)

i have want of stripes

I leave the rock because I want to
bleed like the boar as he digs
for supper, catches a thorn and tears
a gash in hindquarters

        I try to be more a part:
all I can manage is my Birkenstocks becoming
new brown mountains in the ants' universe
they tickle my toe hair but I keep still
some venture further - these are hard not to kill

am I any more a part than
the suit yesterday on the bus
filing through geraniums he had picked
at the grocery
        and then his cell phone rings

the ground moves beneath
in jiggy ant swirls

the gecko will pounce
if provoked

he has earned more stripes
than I care to know