Chicano Poet

Wednesday, February 13, 2008

Henry Hora

Henry was rummaging
through the trash cans
as car headlights, turning the corner,

blinded him for a second.
He proceeded to look for scraps
to feed his young.

He grabbed the morsels in his paws,
rushed back to the kids
hidden in the safety of the bushes.

If Henry had not been born a skunk,
he would have loved
becoming poet, pauper or king.

But we can not pick
what we want to be, thought Henry
as he curled his stinky tail and went to sleep.


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