The road thumps over, kind of switchback. We could hit a tree,
or be hit by a full-on daddy elk, huge and oh. I don’t want the daddy elk
to hit us, to leave his cows alone with their babies & poachers in the gorge.
Then it is there. It is. It is a little raccoon sleeping on the road’s zipper.
I can’t see in my rearview mirror whether the silly little napper
had his pajamas on. We talk about making a raccoon roadhouse,
a place for them to sleep and twitch off the road, away from us and wheels
in general, when some young buck starts to tango with my sedan.
Finally, after I think over Isadora scarves and road wrecks:
home, with no pelt, no blood. We make love after beer and paleo snacks.
Those funny furry buddies, those silly little sleeping animals.
Us alive in the rainy night, piled up like baby birds in a feather bed.