Carrying a Raccoon

This is an old poem, from 2008. But I figured it should be here. It's always been one of my favorites. And yes, it is based on a dream.



I am walking through a subway tunnel,
going to the opera,
carrying a raccoon.

The tunnel is slabs of concrete,
like an overpass, a parking structure.
People are walking here. Daylight leaks
through bolted junctions.

And the raccoon is small as a plush toy,
bright-eyed, infinitely precious.
I carry it through the concrete tunnel,
going to the opera.

Except when I arrive at the opera,
I have lost my ticket. I persuade
the ushers to let me in
to search for it.

It is not on the ground floor
under the tonguelike balcony,
nor in the climbing tiers
of balconies like bracket fungus.
I climb the switchback ramps,
searching, pleading,
carrying a raccoon.

Without a ticket, I cannot see the opera --
"La Traviata," sung in Russian. The first act
has begun. The doors are closed.
I carry my raccoon down the ramps,
and into the casino

which is also a lunch counter
where shabby men eat hot dogs
with bland yellow mustard.
I buy two: one for me,
one for the raccoon.

The opera rolls over us, mingling
with the jangle of slot machines.
It echoes off the concrete slabs,
the overpass pillars.
Violetta dies in Russian.
"Lyubov moya!" "My love!" I weep,
sitting on cracked vinyl, eating a hot dog,
holding my raccoon.