The Rabbit Must Be Saved
The man in the shallow trench leans on one elbow.
The white rabbit shines,
a helpless little moon in barren midnight.
The man wants the rabbit dead;
the rabbit cannot die from stares
for it does not understand hate.
The man takes a stone.
the stone is small, falls short.
The man lifts a head-sized rock.
Far on the horizon is a house.
Verandas open like friendly hands.
Incandescent lamps warm the dark.
Contained inside are beautiful women.
circulating like fish, unperturbed,
not needing the oceans around the world.
They float to the windows, eye-side to the dark
where the man, his rock, and arm are cocked like a catapault.
They see nothing.
One swims to the couch.
Another straightens the magazines.
A third ascends to sleep.
Will you save the rabbit?
While you are thinking about your answer,
you see you are already there:
outside, standing over the man.
The man laughs at the stick in your hands.
drops his weapon, grabs you.
You feel his morbid weight.
Plant your feet.
This is not about a rabbit.
Jo Mariner: Coming back to poetry after years of corporate communications. Never left really, but too worn while in the fray. Hopeful now and thinking hope is one thing poems can do. Hope for what? Not everything is understood, labelled, safe.