Wild Rabbits

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‘And I can’t be running back and forth forever between grief and high delight.’ – J. D. Salinger, Franny and Zooey 

In early September, I think of 

All things staring into headlights. 

The noiseless main road; 

A tourist-town’s artery. 

It leads to the harbour 

Where schoolchildren plunge into freezing water 

All year-round. 

On this road, you can stop a while, 

Only half-seeing in the faltering light. 

To the right, look 

And find a stretch of grassless earth 

Behind an unattended car park. 

Wild rabbits sit in small, unmistakable shapes 

Along the horizon in widow’s weeds 

And do not move. 

I think of all preyed-upon creatures. 

I think of every girl who reminds me

Of Franny Glass: 

Unwashed face and slept-in clothes, 

Taking a ‘break’ from education. 

Sitting on their mother’s sofa 

For days on end 

Bleary-eyed and never returning calls. 

I think of their bitten nails, 

Their incoherent speech. 

I think of their brothers 

Preaching uninformed verse

That they try their best to tune out. 

They look to the living room window instead 

But see no changing seasons–

Only an evening that comes sooner than before. 

I think of all things that cannot be helped: 

Children unwillingly packing their bags 

Wasps moving from person to person, quick as criminals. 

Red-eyed wild rabbits, born less than a year ago 

Darting out into the road 

The one time a car hauls by.