The Last Wolf
The last wolf hurried toward me
through the ruined city
and I heard his baying echoes
down the steep smashed warrens
of Montgomery Street and past
the ruby-crowned highrises
their lighted elevators useless
Passing the flicking red and green
of traffic signals
baying his way eastward
in the mystery of his wild loping
closer the sounds in the deadly
through clutter and rubble of quiet
I hear his voice ascending the hill
and at last his low whine as he
floor by empty floor to the room
where I sat
in my narrow bed looking west,
I heard him snuffle at the door and
He trotted across the floor
he laid his long gray muzzle
on the spare white spread
and his eyes burned yellow
his small dotted eyebrows quivered
Yes, I said.
I know what they have done.
from Light on a Tent Wall, 1990
University of California, Los Angeles, CA
Copyright 1990 by Mary TallMountain.
All rights reserved.
Reproduced with permission (click for permissions information).