At Wilshire & Santa Monica I saw an opossum br Trying to cross the street. It was late, the street br Was brightly lit, the opossum would take br A few steps forward, then back away from the breath br Of moving traffic. People coming out of the bars br Would approach, as if to help it somehow. br It would lift its black lips & show them br The reddened gums, the long rows of incisors, br Teeth that went all the way back beyond br The flames of Troy & Carthage, beyond sheep br Grazing rock-strewn hills, fragments of ruins br In the grass at San Vitale. It would back away br Delicately & smoothly, stepping carefully br As it always had. It could mangle someone’s hand br In twenty seconds. Mangle it for good. It could br Sever it completely from the wrist in forty. br There was nothing to be done for it. Someone br Or other probably called the LAPD, who then br Called Animal Control, who woke a driver, who br Then dressed in mailed gloves, the kind of thing br Small knights once wore into battle, who gathered br Together his pole with a noose on the end, br A light steel net to snare it with, someone who hoped br The thing would have vanished by the time he got there.