← v10n2, Fall 2011
Poetry · Volume 10, Number 2

Waiting with the Donkey

Oh, America, you are those young fools

waiting by the donkey, while a madman

strops a knife and tells his son to look

the other way. You had a big breakfast—

sausage, egg like a temple’s golden dome

on its desert of toast, but now you’re bored,

so to pass the time, you take up a stick

to harry a lizard from bush to bush

while jets plow furrows in the fallow sky.

That sky belongs to every hawk you name

after yourself, and it’s full of invisible

voices. Someone may be listening, or maybe

not. But then the lizard bites you, and you

pick up a rock, and things get serious.