334 Readings

Poor Concrete Yogi

is so inflexible. So rigid
in his happy bearish grin,
his jaunty little hat. Upraised paw
to the rain, to wind &
scorching sun, to weeds
& bird shit in his marbled eye,
to frozen lonely nights
& vandalisms too obscene
to name, he grins & grins & grins
& bears it.

Rage against the machine
of your making, Bear!

Steal a picnic basket,
scare a small & tantrumming
child. At the least
roll in the warm soil,
clamber around, bellow a bit.

Inside your concrete body
is the soul of a bear
Who might just rip an arm off
a housewife, dismember a
Jawboned buisnessman, maul a
bickering couple in matching boots
& yellow Jellystone Park! t-shirts.

Shit in the parking lot, Bear,
leave a deer carcass, freshly
gutted, at the restrooms.
If nothing else, roll your eyes,
round & full as the flash bulbs
pop, while in the background
a troop of ruddy-cheeked Boy Scouts sing
“God Bless America”.

Posted 01/20/12
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