Ten yards from the back door, a razorback
snouts between trees, scent guiding tongue
to late winter shoot. Short tusks, scant
shield of cartilage under his shoulders,
no match for his elders in scavenge or rut.
No calling DNR. I’ll let him follow the creek
to underbrush, return to his scratched clay nest.
No work today. Skeleton shifts, carry out only,
Maybe a month in the bank. Lock down
and quarantine. April to May. I wake all gristle
and scar. No reason to get out of bed. No grill
to keep clean between orders, no tickets
on the rail, no order up to Takaya,
no cracking fatigue mat under my shoes,
no regulars hunched over plates. Just floors
I sweep to sweep, counters I wipe to wipe,
grass I trim to trim. Afternoons, I sleep. I don’t dream.
Mr. Pell says we’ll make it through June. Corona –
the crown of a flower. Fine by this boar.
Fewer boots in the woods he scours. Snout
to wind. Mouth turning over Spring earth.
Robert Lee Kendrick lives in Clemson, South Carolina. His poems have appeared in Birmingham Poetry Review, Atlanta Review, Tar River Poetry, Louisiana Literature, and elsewhere. His collections are Shape the Bent Straight (Main Street Rag, 2020) and What Once Burst With Brilliance (Iris Press, 2018). He is founding editor of Twelve Mile Review.