Stalking moles like big game
in the Serengeti,
you are hunter and angel,
killer and the softest of souls.
Always posing, you lovable
ego-maniac,
your fairy-sized thunder
on my lap
as I embrace the lion,
now reduced to a whipped-cream
ninja in my arms,
is a cure for this
chain of days
that makes me feel like
your trophy prey
in a makeshift, plastic
paradise we accept like
lobotomized cadets . . .
marching, marching always
in a bubble of pain
and marching still.
Thank you for showing up,
my Atlas to a world
unhinged and falling.
Thank you for being the
kindest light between
the rocks.