Living Like Possums

(You remember, don't you?)

From the deep sleep of oblivion to the dreams of awakening
You opened your almond-shaped eyes
A possum
As still as can be.

In the daytime you hunker down
hiding out to the point of
invisibility, obscurity.

But the evening dusk is an invitation to roam.
The hunger in your stomach gnaws, signals
from your primitive brain.  You want to eat
anything.  Preferably grain or dog kibble.

Rural legends have it that you move slowly-but
that is wrong.  You scurry along, legs moving faster
center of gravity low.

One possum's ears stick out away from his head; he also
has a wide-eyed gaze, plump and somewhat hairless.  He's known
as Melvin.

Another has more commonly "good looks"--
ears almost pinned to his head, eye sockets reaching
back towards those ears.  When you speak to him, he
gazes up at you as if to say, "Really? Whatever." This one is not
a teenager; still he persists in a droll fashion, like an older
British gentleman.

Nothing surprises nor cajoles him.
His name is Clive and his expression is either contemplative
or defiant, perhaps even detached.  The ambiguity here is unnerving.

There is another, almost cute and young, Annabelle.  She is small in size
and her curious gaze bespeaks her youth.  Who are you?  What are you?
Are you made of grain or dog kibble?  Can I stay and be
comfortable in your midst? Are you a possum I can count on?

A part of me indeed wanted to be that for her.  But I wondered
could I be counted on, after all?

Annabelle's body has long, sparse but coarse hair growing here
and there--those few long hairs meant to cushion and protect
her on her inquisitive prowls, from sharp-edged corners or an occasional
claw of a playful sibling.

At random moments Annabelle might snuggle
close to the human face; this possum's face warm and soft
fine body hair covering it after all
everywhere after all.

Even her breathing can be heard, felt a
rising and a falling.  Some faint snorts and a few
spells of guttural gurgles.  Then there are the nearly
 inaudible sighs of contentment. And silence, a source
of consolation, even solace.

(You do remember, don't you?)

You remember, but oh too well
the fateful night on the gravel road
you and your mate were scurrying along
wild with greed for the seed going wild
in the early Autumn season.  Too late
the lights flashed the tires swerved
it was your mate, your friend, your partner
in possum life.  Lying dead, a gash, some
innards spilled at random.  It was all a
random act.

In fact all of it is.  Living life as a possum.
You stayed by its side, the primitive brain trying to
fathom what happened, A random act in a possum's
life.  You stayed, can't remember how long. You looked like
a fleshly statue by your cohort's side, frozen in non-comprehension
and a wondering even without the brain to articulate that wonder.

By morning you were gone. Wonder where you went.

(You may remember, bits of it now and again-- perhaps?)