with the idea of a coyote—
lean, hungry, night-colored—
and already you’ve screwed it up.
the paper stares back
like it knows you haven't been wild
in a while.
you drag a line,
it twitches,
becomes a dog,
then a bad wolf,
then something that looks like regret
with legs.
the fear doesn’t help.
the cigarette ash falls
right where the heart should be.
so you try again,
thinking maybe this time
you’ll catch the ghost right—
but the truth is
some things refuse to be trapped
in graphite or good intentions.
the coyote keeps running
somewhere off the edge of the page,
laughing its archetypical laugh,
and all you’ve got
is another crooked sketch
of your own limitations.
hell,
maybe that’s the closest
you’ll ever get.
becomes a dog,
then a bad wolf,
then something that looks like regret
with legs.
the fear doesn’t help.
the cigarette ash falls
right where the heart should be.
so you try again,
thinking maybe this time
you’ll catch the ghost right—
but the truth is
some things refuse to be trapped
in graphite or good intentions.
the coyote keeps running
somewhere off the edge of the page,
laughing its archetypical laugh,
and all you’ve got
is another crooked sketch
of your own limitations.
hell,
maybe that’s the closest
you’ll ever get.