Or sick. Panting.
Struggling. Failure
to stand. Alone.
Abandoned? A distance
from a gaggle
of geese in all sizes
(intermixed with a flock
of drakes) that communes
on the south side
of the garden
of the seasons.
A hard knot
in my throat
I can’t swallow.
I find two park-keepers
conversing on the community
arts center steps.
I struggle
to describe the location.
The north arm
of the lake?
One offers.
Near the tennis courts.
We’ll take care of it.
The end
of suffering.
I don’t linger
to see how.
I’ve completely forgotten
about the turtle
peering from its shell
at passing runners
and pedestrians
along Lake of the Isles.
This urban wildlife—
this merciful early June.