Procyon lotor

Christmas, 2009 / No. 23

Exotic to me as pandas, these familiar

bandits; Sexton’s whig emblems and

woman chasers, who can turn door

knobs and release zippers. Hooligans,

routers. Tax collectors after a feast,

romping over their napkins. A raccoon’s poem,

Snyder says, amazes you with the mess

it makes. Stegosaurus-humped, when

not so happy. Panzer-like—someone

else said that. And this mother

and her little ones, a caterpillar

approaching the moonlit bench

and down again. Where

did he go and

why won’t he

come back?