To My Abductor

Remember me?

the guy you snatched away

that day in late October,

running errands around town.

Ah, but I remember you,

crouched behind the privet hedge,

with lightning-quick leap

pouncing and snapping me up

by the collar, shaking me silly,

before dragging me over lawns

and woodlots, through a burnt-orange

leaf pile, over soft beds of pine needle

and garden squash gone belly-down,

my legs trailing behind, nose catching

the drift of downwind wood smoke

along with the scent of wild black grapes.

At last, heaven knows why,

you set me loose in that lair,

buried in a shallow grave

of vividness beneath a sugar maple,

dazed and face-up to a country

of yellowness – leaves like sun-stones

skimming or water lilies bobbing

in circles, the blue-enamel sky so

striking, spiking me right through the eye.

Next Saturday found me

back there.