by Ace Boggess
The fat raccoon arrives early this a.m.,
feet crunching leaves like glass shards
as it searches for slices of day-
old pizza I threw out an hour ago.
No judgments from me, also fat
on pepperoni, cheese, the happy scents
of childhood when dining at the pizzeria
was the high edge of middle class.
All of us have our favorites. Squirrels
used to fight jays for Froot Loops,
won’t touch them now—did the formula
change?—preferring caramel corn
or the last handful of Lay’s Potato Chips
shoveled from a bag & scattered
across the yard like confetti.
Bucks will stare me down for a stale bun.
The occasional fox? I think
it’s me he’s after, though he slinks past
without salivating prior to veering
into the woods to disappear.
I know I shouldn’t feed the wildlife:
it pisses off the neighbors
who rant on Facebook
along with their complaints about teens
driving too fast or setting off fireworks
at all hours. I consider it a bonus
if I’ve riled them, but not my intent
which is to share a moment
like in a fairy-tale reimagining
where I’m the naïve princess
chain-smoking Marlboros on the patio,
singing some hideous, best-forgotten song.
::
Ace Boggess is author of six books of poetry, most recently Escape Envy. His writing has appeared in Indiana Review, Michigan Quarterly Review, Hanging Loose, and other journals. An ex-con, he lives in Charleston, West Virginia, where he writes, watches Criterion films, and tries to stay out of trouble. His forthcoming books include poetry collections, My Pandemic / Gratitude List from Mōtus Audāx Press and Tell Us How to Live from Fernwood Press, and his first short-story collection, Always One Mistake, from Running Wild Press.
Image: fr0ggy5
ID: a raccoon on a patio.
Psaltery & Lyre 