Ambitions

Someone smashed last



week through the neighbor’s



glass back door



and stole his electric guitar.



 



Or the mouse in the trap:



Sweet crumb still sweetening



between its teeth, and the whole



history of its species, in



attics, in grain sacks, in



 



the golden ideal of the golden field.



 



The way the sad child returns to his



sad seat



after sharpening his pencil.



 



Or the newlyweds’ rowboat



at the bottom of an ocean.



 



And the woman on the front porch



who keeps discarding things from her heart:



 



The deathbed.  The divorce.  The friend



in the restaurant



in the booth near the window. The glass.



The glare.  The impatience



 



on her friend’s face as the friendship ended.



 



Somewhere tonight a thief



is attempting to play



an electric guitar.



The wolves have already worn



a dark path in the grass around his house.



They’ve



 



not yet



begun to howl.



But they will howl:



 



These great ambitions, slinking



back one day



through the mess they’ve made



to return



the infernal thing.