wolf, winded, knocks his softest
dewclawed knock on my straw door. He begs,
far too proud for handouts, a heart-
to-heart. Although a love poem is right
in the middle of whispering sweet
naughty nothings to me
as we stroll arm-in-arm
across the page, I ask him in,
fix him a thick ham steak and eggs,
Charles M. Russell’s favorite.
The wolf
wants to pay me 7 million dollars for my trouble,
for the first home-cooked meal
he’s eaten in eighty years,
but his pockets are empty
as a cowboy poet’s pockets
the morning after drawing his pay
for Saturday night's show. Thus, the wolf
breaks into his rendition of Moanin’
At Midnight, a blues song so haunting,
so harmonious with the whole
toe-tapping cosmos keeping tempo,
it makes my guard hairs
bristle—silver needles tweaked
into each pore, the master
acupuncturist knowing exactly where
pain blazes its steepest trails.
The
wolf circles
back to old Montana
as we go back to our childhood
homeground decades later to mourn
our own passing. We all crave, admit it,
what's vaguely familiar, the distant
glimpse of wild beginnings. We are all hungry.
We are happy. We all hurt and howl
louder the second time around
because we hope to learn to love our own
howling, as we love our healing—
all of us, from the same packed stage,
singing for our suppers.
From Wolf Tracks on the Welcome Mat
(OreanaBooks, 2003)
© Paul Zarzyski. All rights reserved. These words may not be reprinted or reposted without the author's written permission.
Wolf in cowboy poet’s clothing—Elko, 2004.
(Photo by Jessica Brandi Lifland/Polaris)
