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Published February 27, 2008 at 5:40 a.m.
This
is a political
poem
where moose — bull and cow —
frolic
like downwardly mobile
young adults who have
abandoned
their cultural inhibitions,
acting like everyday
is Xmas, Chanukah, Kwanzaa, Ramadan,
not considering the consequences
of spring thaw,
mud up to their bulbous knees
or
where maples shed
leaves like rapturous nudists
only to huddle
hidden all winter
under surplus blankets of snow
waiting meekly
for the sap to finally run,
sluicing toward pancakes
and Town Meeting.
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