The Buffalo

No one’s exactly sure how this buffalo in the 1960s Found its way to live in the heart of the city How it separated from a sky stampede How the great beast dropped its guard and refused to riot With the rest left to genocide Like a plummeting thundercloud the buffalo grazes its saliva rain Across an offshoot of a sweet grass park Two miles from the high rises of downtown The park and the buffalo someone’s good imagination About prairie dogs antelope turtles and yes a buffalo Thought the animals could be tricked to think Smokestacked Lansing as a flat windy home Ignore the fences The gunpowder white faces Staring The shaggy hippie never moves Every time my mom and dad drive me by Lost On the way to the University Club But to catch a glimpse of such a rarity From a dirty kid in the backseat Was the real highlight of Sunday brunch with exclamations “There it is! I saw it!” The buffalo’s noble anger never looks Over His mound of molting shoulder Cornered in himself Like drinking fog Imperceptibly taking the Earth’s wet tall grass to his mouth I wonder if such a creature can feel its loneliness? If any of us Can know of our own isolation? I think so For even as a modern bandit I could instinctly understand that As I grow much older and stand as still To that now disappeared wonder I think And remember More than ever.