Ides of March Moon

A Pack of wolf cubs sings songs of woe
To you, ever expanding firework
Scarleting the sky
OOOooo…
This is their mournful tune

A cry of inconsolable children.
Their mother found a scrap
of meat on the other side
of highway 99. Even the fleet
footed dashing of the ancestors who
were familiars to the Pawnee
can’t beat a speeding Suburban.

You’ve indulged your morning star
ritual, Ides of March Moon
OOOooo…
This is their mournful tune

As I peep out of my window and up
To you, ever expanding fire work
scarleting the sky,
I wonder if you’re satisfied
It was once said, to no avoidance
of violence, “beware the ides”

It’s no secret, we too covet Pawnee
familiar hides, whether stuffed and posed
in a “science” museum or in an exquisitely
landscaped cell (we call these preserves “wild”).
Trap and tag then guiltlessly insist
they remain free…

Oh scarleting firework
this is what their woeful song sings to me.