by Jerry Ratch

I clearly see the squirrels of 

negativity all around me 

or at least I sense that 

they are there, 

filling in the blank spaces 

as I read down the page 

prior to arriving at 

the meaning of everything. 

The greenness of figs 

before they ripen 

means nothing at all 

to them, 

even if they feel a swelling 

in their little bellies 

while they lie in the open sunlight 

stretched out on a limb, 

wondering about that 

sudden sinking feeling 

because they could not, 

could not wait for winter. 

Keep going, my little panting squirrel, 

as your mamas and papas are 

falling from the telephone wires 

over the street and lie there quietly 

until the inquisitive crows 

arrive to sweep the streets clean 

before the meaning of everything 

becomes clear.