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 is,

and will be in all breeds,

one removed from the herd,

stopping traffic along darkened roads.