There are some animal poems in that book,
and I want to read one about an animal that seldom gets
anything good said about it.
I lived in Mexico and used to go to the movies,
and fleas were very important in the movie house.
And the Indians had stories about almost every animal,
but I waited in vain to hear an explanation of the fleas.
So I eventually wrote a poem called A Flea's Carrying Words.
The Indians in that part of Mexico in the mountains,
I don't know whether it's still true,
but they carried everything.
And then the men would refer to themselves
as a carrying man, meaning somebody who carries things
up and down the mountains.
A flea is carrying a bag of diseases.
And he says as he goes these I did not make myself.
We don't all have the same gifts.
Beginning isn't everything.
I don't even know who made them.
I don't know who will use them.
I don't use them myself.
I just do what's in front of me as I'm supposed to.
I carry them.
Nobody likes me.
Nobody wants to change places with me, but I don't mind.
I get away, bag and all.
Something needs me; everything needs me.
I need myself.
And the fire is my father.