It’s just like me to bring a book outside
Where I know a pair of baby raccoons
Are dozing in the elbows of tree limbs.
A book of poems—so I won’t regret
Losing a plot when I look across
The creek where the raccoons wait for nighttime.
It’s just like me to suppose they are waiting
For nighttime and not for me to go back
Inside. But I am being very still now.
And quiet. And I have no gun. Unlike
The neighbor whose midnight furies
Have us all up our trees and trembling.
That’s big-time like me—making innocent
Baby raccoons of us all, everyone
But the shotgun man who, like the raccoons,
Is waiting for me to go back inside.