WHEREAS THE ANIMAL I CANNOT HELP BUT BE

The possum knows how to play himself,

is one of us. And the chameleon,

too, can fit right in, be other than it is.

I praise them both.

And as night rises up from the grass

and comes down from the clouds,

bats at top speed merely glance

off of what they disturb.

I admire their swooping gracefulness,

and the brilliance of moles carving tunnels

under lawns, feeling their whiskery way

as they go. I even praise the cat,

its savage patience and quick paws.

And feel a camaraderie with the earthworm,

straightforward but slippery, both ends open,

getting under the feet of barefoot girls.

Unlike you and me, they have no choice.

They themselves are evidence

of what can be done conspicuously,

or undercover, without remorse.

Whereas the animal I cannot help but be,

duplicitous, having more than once been taken

to task, shamed, still envies the silver fox,

leaving a false trail, swerving this way, then that.