← v16n1, Spring 2017
Poetry · Volume 16, Number 1

Mascots

Mascots

Late, when the clock’s numbers

are a red blur, the screech owl

woke me with its baleful

rapid wailing, the bluest,

blackest side of any music

I’ve heard. I lay there wishing

again for some charm I knew

so I could roll out of bed

and flip one shoe heel up,

or turn my pants pockets

inside out as if to show that owl

there was nothing of mine

it needed, and send it off

through the dark. Even thinking of it

as a shaggy college mascot

with size-twelve feet, the kind

they sell in bookstores with

the school’s logo on its chest

and eyes like gold saucers

in its cat face is no help when

it wants me to be its mascot,

wants me to sit on the darkest

shelf in its hollow tree somewhere.