Wakeful
A good suburban mom takes her four kits to scout.
She’s den mother of the Coyote Patrol.
They spill out into new spring’s almost balmy night,
drift towards the tract homes.
I fear for the raspy pug next door.
For once, he’s not barking like a metronome.
He is business-like, brief,
getting the memo out. Then stops.
The patrol made no meal there, I think.
No shriek, no maniacal coyote laughter,
only my husband’s light rapid breathing.
I listen as he dreams, my ear to his.
Karen Greenbaum-Maya, retired clinical psychologist, former German Lit. major, and Pushcart nominee, no longer lives for Art, but still. No one believes she is a California native. She started writing when she was nine. Since 2007, more than 80 poems have appeared in many publications, including Sow’s Ear Poetry Review, Lilliput Review, Word Gumbo, The Prose Poem Project, Centrifugal Eye, Convergence and dotdotdash. Her second chapbook, Burrowing Song, is in press with Kattywompus. Links to her photos and poems online may be found at her blog, Clouds Like Mountains.
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