"Zebra."
"Kids once carried 10 soldiers in their pockets
as charms against being afraid, but how
trust soldiers these days not to load up,
aim, blast the pants off your legs?
I have a keychain zebra I bought at the Thanksgiving fair.
How do I know she won't kick or bite at my crotch?
Because she's been murdered, machine gunned.
She's dead.
Also, she's a she.
Even so crudely carved, you can tell
by the sway of her belly of foals inside her.
Even murdered mothers don't hurt people, do they?
And how know she's murdered?
Isn't everything murdered?
Some dictator's thugs, some rebels, some poachers,
some drought?
World drought, world rot, pollution, extinction.
Everything's murdered.
But still not good, a dead thing in with your ID and change.
I fling her away, but the death of her
clings the death of her death, her murder, her slaughter.
The best part of Thanksgiving day, though, the parade.
Mickey Mouse, Snoopy, Kermit the Frog, enormous as clouds.
And the marching bands, majorettes, anthems, and drums.
When the great bass stomped its galloping boom out
to the crowd, my heart swelled with valor and pride.
I remembered when we saluted, when we took off our hat."