Forage

In the night, a black bear climbs a pear tree,

snaps branches, feasts on pears in the grass;

one night you turned onto a dead-end street

and—click click click click—in your headlights,

two guys, stripping wheels off a car

jacked up on blocks, turned and fled.

You glimpsed their faces; at the post office,

the clerk has a face like sunlight that dims

then brightens as he ticks a countdown

to retirement; when he reaches zero,

will white spikes precipitate out of solution?

Will he detonate? You precipitate

a migraine when you walk office corridors all day;

a lawyer says he will write a great American

novel when he takes leave from work next year;

next year is a beach vacation in Samoa;

in kindergarten, a child draws a gorilla on roller skates—

in a lifetime, when do a child’s dreams ignite?