by Chris Farago.
There is a bear in my house now,
rummaging through cabinets
in search of a snack.
Good luck to you, I say—
it’s all dehydrated protein powder
and years-old jerky—
I doubt there’s anything there
you could make a meal out of.
Do I feel sorry for the bear?
I do, in the same way I feel sorrow
toward the sun when it departs,
or the clay on my wheel as it turns
from lump to pot. I‘ll not die by your claws tonight,
bear; I have another sunrise left in my larder.