The Possum in His Fashion

There's the mechanical about him,         lumbering through vineand palmetto (yard salad, you might call it)         by midnight, in high

beams, off guard, as if wearing a         possum suit—that can'tbe right, though the pink tail, fake         as a rubber snake,

must have been store-bought and stitched on.         Hobbes could have seen himfor what he is—nasty, brutish, and long.         What profits the man—

or the possum (night stalker, pencil-         eraser-nosed, "whitedog" to the Algonquin)—who finds home everywhere         and welcome nowhere;

whose diet, could it be named that, does not         care to distinguishbetween roadkill and the avocado, and who         has been discovered

dining heartily on run-over relatives,         though whether he cantell his own mother from week-old ground beef         may yet be doubted;

whose Comfort Inn may be located atop palm tree         or under shotgun shack; and whose fur, entirely awn hair,         beats sable or mink

cold, or warm (his bridal-white teeth familiar         to the thespianas a "packed house")? Yet no matter what nonsense         theologians spout,

the possum, though thoroughly investigated         by Hardshell Baptistand four-eyed scientist alike, has never been shown         to possess a soul.