Desire

Holding a wounded beast,

Firmly to my chest,

I roam around,

In a crowded box of rusty tin.

This hand tiringly holds,

The being soon to become a carcass,

And that hand occupied for my ownself,

Somehow, anyhow, meanly–

Taking care of our two dying souls.

Neither an eye in that crowd,

Seems nosey or dazed or panicked,

About what embraces me so coyly,

So intently, nor lip shudders, to ask–

Where I want to go and why.

I, finally, alight the cramped tin-box,

To gallop hurriedly on the street.

And then, for no reason,

I crane my neck to look beyond.

I see a mob cruising at me,

Holding similar wounded beasts,

Tightly in their arms, some on their shoulder.

I, now, have to take care of us, control us,

Nurture all these maimed beings.

But how... And how... I wonder…