The Raccoon
You’re seeking a path of compassion
as you hold the pistol, putting your face
through paces of shifting sentiments.
A large, tailless male lounges in the driveway
in the middle of the day while the rest
of his kind are tucked in tree dens.
He stumbles like a drunk on a dance floor,
lifts his languid head when you lob him
with a snowball. When he turns, we notice
the wound along his left flank. Dark
dried blood, matted fur. He’s telling you
it’s all right, making it easier to be resolute
since you both want the same thing.
Published in Tipton Poetry Journal Issue #63, Winter 2025
Lynette Lamp 