by Howie Faerstein
There was a disturbance.
It roused me from bed.
Atoms were gliding slowly & so
the air was gelid.
I walked out into the starry yard.
Three Russian boys: fair-skinned,
blonde, a ring of acne or was it tattoos
circling their cheeks.
They threatened me. Without words.
Three black bear yearlings,
each erect, each in neck chains,
were being led out the rusted gate.
I was frightened and protested.
This is my life after all, I muttered.
But they continued,
silently, in the stippled darkness,
marching the bears
onto the back streets of Brooklyn.