A Glass Jar Away

Since my last skunk poem blew up the net

I thought I’d hit you with another true tale

concerning our brother or sister, the skunk.

I was driving along as I often am

Just trying to get back to the mattress

when a minor flurry of motion

caused me to pull over and curse.

In a small grassy area between streets

was a large skunk shaking its head

but I couldn’t quite make out a face

because the head was stuck in a

glass jar. The pathos of the sight

sent waves of nausea from my

gut to my mind. Speeding cars

whizzed by on either side:

creatures on their way to

ball games, churches, grocery

stores, illicit trysts, and family

gatherings. I approached the

skunk and saw that he’d never

get that jar off his head by

himself. I also saw the long claws

attached to his front paws.

I had to help, but I didn’t want to

end up in a death camp called a

hospital, so I strained my brain

a minute, ran to the car, pulled out

the work gloves and a crutch.

I lightly placed the padded end

of the crutch over the front paws

then pulled the jar with both hands.

It came off. The skunk lifted his snout

in the grey air and took some

breaths. He looked okay. I brought some

cat food from the car and placed it

it near him. He sat there

on the grass and looked at it.

I hopped in the car and headed back

to the mattress. At home I kept thinking

about him. I called a rehabber who said I

should have syringe fed him honey just

in case. I was too tired and soul sick to move.

The next day I drove back to the

scene. The skunk was gone along with

most of the food. The old mattress felt a

little better after that.

— Fyodor Bukowski

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Skunk 130

It was a homeless cat feeding day

I was driving down towards the

mostly heartless city early,

less chance of getting yelled at

or ticketed that way

I passed a skunk by the side

of the road. I figured he was

already frolicking at the Rainbow

Bridge, and I had to get to the cats

so I kept driving. After putting food

out at five locations, on my way back

I saw the skunk again and pulled over

just in case he was still with us here

on this mostly heartless Earth.

His head was upright. No blood and

he seemed intact. I cursed our maker

for doing this to the skunk and for

doing this to me again. I decided that

he needed help more than I needed to

maintain my present smell, so I pulled

work gloves and a paper shopping bag

from the back seat. I put him (or her)

in the bag. A cop pulled over and

asked me if I needed help. Then I cursed

the worthless inhuman trash that

hit the skunk and all of those that drove by.

The officer smiled and called me by name

though I never gave him my name.

He suggested I call a local wildlife center.

He even gave me the number. I explained

the skunk’s plight to the lady there, and I offered

to pay. She had to ask someone else if they

could be of help, and then she came back on

and gave me another number. Long story short,

I called number after number: wildlife rehabbers,

animal emergency clinics, etc. One voice after another

told me to call this other number. One voice told me

that it would be illegal for me to try and keep the skunk

in my county. I told him that I live in my

own country and that his county could go________.

Finally, I left a voice message to a lady

who I was assured would help. I put the

skunk in the trunk and drove to the pet store.

They didn’t have any skunk food, and after I

watched a few online videos and learned that

I should syringe feed him some honey and other

stuff, no one at the pet store would help. The

ugly young lady manager there explained that

skunks are considered “nuisance animals.”

As I fed him in the carrier in my back seat,

a bee attacked, and I cursed God once again.

The skunk ate a little honey I bought at the

supermarket and some chicken broth too.

It seemed that a back leg or both were broken

Those front legs were swinging those long claws at me

but I couldn’t blame him. I hid the carrier with him in it

under my porch. The skunk rehabber messaged back and

told me to put a blanket over him and to swirl an egg in some water.

She also said that she was going to a family function and that

she would call me back in a few hours at which time I

could head over to her place with the skunk.

I looked at the comments at her rehabbing location.

One stated that she never called the commenter back.

I didn’t have any eggs. I collapsed on the mini mattress

in my room because I was exhausted and it was getting late.

A few hours went by with no call back, so I got in the car

and headed out to her locale with the skunk. He was

starting to shake. I fed him again. His face reminded me of

the face of a dearly departed cat who passed only days before.

We drove and drove. After nearly two hours we arrived at a

semi-rural destination.

A car with windows rolled down sat in the drive. I knocked

on the screen door. The wooden door behind it was open.

A dog with a healed hole in his forehead ran along the fence

bordering the driveway. I went back to the car. Under the

garbage bag and shirt I put over him, the skunk

was shaking worse than before. I tried calling and texting

the skunk rebber lady.

Finally, I found her Facebook page and left an emergency

message. I pulled the carrier out of the car and tried feeding

the skunk again. Then the lady appeared from out of her front door.

I had envisioned her as a sweet old Aunt Bee, but she was an

ordinary-looking middle-aged lady with a crazed look on her

face. I realized that I’d been moving very slowly, so

I explained to her in my meekest voice that I wasn’t drunk

(I wasn’t), just very tired

because I’d been up since 5:00 am.

She started in on me. “THAT’S my life EVERY DAY.

I TOLD YOU THAT I WOULD CALL!” I explained

that because it was such a long drive and the skunk

was shaking, I thought I should get a head start

driving. She continued to harangue me. Then she

explained that she’d been at a family function to

celebrate the memory of her dearly departed son

who had died one year ago that day. I expressed

my regrets, but she hadn’t mentioned that on the

phone, and the skunk was shaking. And there was

literally no one else. There on her lawn, in front of

the shaking skunk in the carrier, as I stared into her grief

and anger crazed face, as she continued to dress me down

and inform me that she had already cared for 129 forlorn

skunks this year alone while she help down her job,

I realized that she was a Saint driven nearly mad because

most people were heartless and wouldn’t help skunks, so

the burdens all fell upon her. I remembered my dearly departed

cat and continued to wonder if I could have done things differently

and saved him.

I realized that I did not feel the presence of God

I started shaking and crying aloud, and no manly efforts

on my part could stop my tears. I blubbered that I was sorry

but that there was no one else. She softened when I told her

about my cat and handed me a form to fill out. There was a

blank for donation. I asked her how much. She said, “Whatever

you want” then “Don’t worry about that.” I gave her 5 twenties and

said through my tears that she deserved much more. And of

course she did. She said that was generous of me and picked

up the skunk in her blanket just like he was a baby. I thanked God

for the lady.

She said she would call me. I said that I would adopt the skunk if

he makes it. She said she would call. She never called.

–Fyodor Bukowski

Francis the Homeless Cat

Skinny and grey

he leapt into my trailer

then looked around nervously.

I popped a can of cat food

and he chomped away as his

eyes darted around at the

mysterious and dark

surroundings.

I already had cats

so I put him back outside.

About a week later he

appeared at the back door

looking even skinnier and

greyer in the harsh light.

This time I put him in the car

and drove him to the vet.

The vet showed me that

the he was covered with

caked fecal matter and fleas,

and we could both see that his eyes

were oozing yellow goo.

He put the anti-flea solution on him,

gave me some antibiotics,

cat shampoo,

and vitamins for him.

The cat was very old

and had missing teeth.

When I got him home

I told him he could stay.

I would be his

retirement plan.

I figured I could do better

for him than nature had.

I gave him a bath and

kept him in the bedroom

where he rested his tired bones

in a premium cat bed and

ate voraciously. He’d had it

rough outside, so I even

got him a bubbling cat fountain

and a glow-in-the-dark collar

with his new name and info.

engraved on a heart-shaped tag.

As I rested on my futon,

he lay on my chest and looked

at me. When I turned on my

stomach, he jumped on my back and slept.

And when I turned on my side

he managed to balance there,

his head held up proudly

like the Sphinx.

Then the diarrhea came

and came.

No big deal.

I cleaned it up.

He was more than worth

the effort.

He’d been neutered

before he came to me,

so I guessed that he’d been

someone’s cat but then

abandoned.

People are beasts.

Sometimes he made it to

the litter pan.

He did his best.

The vet advised trying

boiled chicken and rice

for a while to settle his stomach,

so I cooked

for the first time in many years.

Then, about a month after I

adopted him, he stopped

eating altogether, wouldn’t

touch the chicken or the

different brands of cat food.

He couldn’t

even get up. The vet said

he was moribund and had

reached the end.

I didn’t want him to suffer

or die

alone when I was at work,

so I stayed with him as the vet

prepared the needle that

would help him pass. I told

Francis that his soul could

follow me home or go ahead

to that painless place

where I would be with him

again someday.

Afterwards I stayed in the

exam room with him for a

while. Then I took his collar

and put it in my pocket.

You are my boy, Francis,

and I was lucky to have you.

I will follow you home

someday.

— Fyodor Bukowski

On Seeing a Fallen Squirrel in the Road

I’m not going to launch into my

usual disgust for humanity. I’ve

waxed that before, but would it

have been too much for whatever

fat vaxxed slob who hit him

or her to have checked to make

sure he or she was out of misery

before moving the squirrel out of

the road? Well, once again the God

of Creatures left that up to slovenly

me. After seeing that he or she wasn’t

moving, I grabbed the tail and pulled

the squirrel onto a large envelope

and carried him or her into a shaded

little alcove off the road. Of course to

be eaten by other creatures , a far less

obscene fate than to be smeared across

the road by fat vaxxed creatures I never

want to meet.

–fb

Even the Beggars Were Better Then

Driving home down

the dark city streets

after dumping the

cat food behind

the fast food place

I’m accosted at

the light by a beggar

with his massive hand out

he puts his dreadful

face too close to my

window and smiles

when he sees the

empty cat food bag

perhaps thinking I’m

an easy mark. I look

at the red light ahead

he knocks on my window

It’s not that

I dislike people of the

streets. It’s just that

entitled attitude coming off

a pure pest that keeps

the wallet closed. I’ve read of

times when street people

entertained first, then asked:

the Rev Gary Davis finger-

picking his big Gibson

Humming bird, preaching of

Salvation; Blind Boy

Fuller picking happy ragtime

tunes and singing of sin

back in the 20s and 30s…

of course guys like that

weren’t beggars, but even

if the one at my window

were trying to do something

instead

of acting like his grizzled

face alone deserved mercy

in a world like this, I’d send

a few bucks his way. But

that being not the case

I’ll save it for the strippers

and the cats

thank you

very much

fyodor bukowski, author of Mail Order Annie on Amazon

Nice People

We all stood by the door

Waiting for it to open

So we could get in

Out of the cold

And start our

Impossible jobs

The other wage slaves

Chatted merrily

About everything

Trivial and permitted

As they always did

Because they were nice

And I stood glumly by

Wondering why they

Were alive

One of the nicest of them

Gushed at a skinny cat

That appeared at his feet

He bent down and petted it

And said it was a nice cat

I cursed under my breath

Stared into the snow

Then went to my car and popped

The glove compartment

And took the can of cat food

From off of the gun and

Headed back to the shivering

Mass of slaves

And the cat

I opened the can

And dumped the food but

The cat wouldn’t eat

A middle aged liberal woman

cooed at the cat

While the guy who’d been

Petting it stood up and said

Somebody should take the

Cat. The liberal lady turned

Away and continued the

inane and safe conversation

she’d

Been leading before. I though

Of my small place and five

Cats and asked the nice people

If one of them would take

Him or her

Most stared at the door

A few made lame excuses

As nice people do

I petted the cat and looked

For a tag

there wasn’t one

The door opened and the

Slaves filed in. I scruffed

The cat, carried her to the

Car and put her under a

Coffee-stained

Blanket covering the

Coffee stains on the passenger

Seat. I waited until lunch

Then drove her to

To my ramshackle place

With a No Nice People

Sign on the front door


–Fyodor Bukowski

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