- grace
The Fifth of July

What does it feel like
To be an animal?
To follow pure instinct?
Would you still tip your hat
To the burly black bear
Sitting alone on the bus
Taking you to some other
Wretched comfort?
What is this restraint I feel?
It is discomfort
Purified over years
Of mulling over these
Despicable questions with
Answers that cannot be found
In this life.
A pale child at the zoo
Dragged away on a red leash
Her guts trailing behind,
Strewn across a cold cement floor
Cracking under the weight of
The elephant enclosure.
“Freedom,” the eagle squawks, “independence, jubilation uninhibited!”
Shot dead in flight,
Feathers drift, finding a home miles away
In the wild, wild woods
Where the blind hunter
Roasts his prey over a hastily-made fire
Only to find the old bird
Too tough.