Lonesome George . . .
. . . wanders the Hills solitarily
looking for what he has lost,
not knowing what it is,
not knowing where he lost it.
He stands in the road at night
exiled from the herd
which he does not quite remember,
a giant hulk with puny, thoughtless eyes
searching there, waiting here,
stopping cars occupied by other
Lonesome Georges, only of a different breed
who wait for him to
mosey out of the way and into the woods
as buffalo bulls winnowed from the herd
are prone to do.
He examines parking lots,
dumbly nosing gravel and empty beer cans,
hoping to find that which might prevent him
from being that being identified with derision
as “Lonesome George.”
Driven into solitude by younger bucks,
his horns heavy with age and a forgotten use,
his head weighed with a loss of purpose to keep it aloft,
he needs the scent of his kind.
Will he know what he seeks
when he finds it?
If it is to be found,
will he then still be what he is
in spite of himself?
There has been,
and will be in all breeds,
one removed from the herd,
stopping traffic along darkened roads.