Doctor-Magistrate of Hygienic Truth You, Sir, of latex fingers cool and clean, like God’s touch, Find your fallen Magdalene, branded with a crimson rash, Poison oak or sumac, a snack for a pastured cow- Yet I will not repent, have no regrets, Though your pen scrapes a page of “Remarks on the Patient,” Your countenance as tautly solemn As it was last Tuesday, when I cradled a toad to my cheek Contracting dermatitis from his whorled gray skin; How his pea-sized heart staccatoed, as if he were on interview, And his face! Imagine a planet peopled with such as him…. Of course I let him go!
Doctor, do you recall the glorious newt I all too briefly knew? A fire streak in the rock-bottom mud, a lean, wife look- He could have been a twin to you! I merely stared, close-up And amazed, while he squirmed in my hand, and no corollary Can be proven, as you noted yourself, Between that princely newt and the salmonella That rendered me limp for a month or two….
Will I be branded outlaw, then, a groveller in the pew… For what seemed the natural, even godly thing to do: Kissing that cow’s naked pink muzzle Grasping her bony huge Head of rough wine-dappled velvet, Peering into one truculent eye Made French by its fanciful lashes, Yes, and swooning, caressing that head Of the hot leafy breath, the attendant fly or two- Loving all of surly, swish-tailed Nature as I do…?
