Chicano Poet

Friday, March 30, 2007

The Hollow Prey

The grasslands stretch forever
and Robinson lifts his head to get a better view
of friend or foe alike.

An occasional superlative
will pop into his wary eyes,
a rodent scurries, a beetle unawares.

Why am I eating grass, he wonders?
I don’t like grass, I never have,
I never will! he tells himself,

but to himself he seldom listens.
The giraffes muscle in on him,
the hyenas look at him

and tell him they are waiting.
But, Robinson puts his head down to eat,
he counts his meaninglessness on his fingers,

and proceeds to his toes,
which are digging into the dirt.
The dust is too dry to fly.