Coming into our big city to gawp at the skyscrapers
And eat the terrible street vendor hotdogs.
We laughed when they jumped at the traffic
And shook their heads at our big-city-“rudeness,”
Not knowing in their ignorant fashion, of course,
That it wasn’t rudeness, just big-city hustle.
Get out of the way, we said to them
Hesitating for half a second at the crosswalks
Or we didn’t talk to them at all, muttering only
About the yokels walking four abreast on the sidewalks.
Yet they laughed when I screamed
When I saw the rat in the street
They said it was a possum
And described a world of possums and ferrets and raccoons
And heifers and horses
And creeks that didn’t flow between concrete walls
And sunrises and sunsets you could see on the horizon
Not at random between the buildings.
And of the freedom to walk without car exhaust but only the smell of dung;
which we have in the city too. But not from horses.
And it sounded terrible.
And wonderful.
Ci I git, mes amis, buried in the only plot of land I could call my own.
No comments:
Post a Comment