Groundhog

We went outside
to read poetry.
At least, that was
the official plan.

A seat on the grass,
the shade of a tree,
far enough away
from the front doors
that the cool kids
wouldn't see us,
wouldn't mock us
for caring about such things.

A little Bukowski.
Some Atwood and
Alden Nowlan. But
nothing much was
sticking to our ears.
Sunshine
drowned out our
literary ambitions.

Democracy insists
we each take a turn
so we soldiered on
around the rough
approximation of a circle,
our voices lost
under bus wheels;
our pages bleached
by birdsong. Finally

the groundhog
who lives under the pine
that grows crooked
just outside the frame
of this poem
emerged to save us from
the common drudgery
of learning to love language.

Not yet full of
summer fat
but well beyond
the shadow of winter,
he humped across the lawn.

A girls' phys-ed class
(black shorts, grey tops, shrieking)
agreed he was the
cutest thing. And so
they chased him
low and frantic
amongst the bees and clover
towards the road.

We watched,
not quite horrified,
and hoped
they would recognize in time
that he was just another poem

not worthy of such attention;
that they would grow
bored with chasing visions
and drift away.