"The Raccoon" by Michael Collier

The Raccoon
by Michael Collier

Outside our window we hear it licking
its paws on the fire-escape landing.
If we drew back the curtains, we'd see
its night eyes and the way it presides

over the hollow bones of a pigeon,
and how the air shaft is a vertical tunnel,
a passageway to the roof where it lives
among tar buckets and discarded mops.

Nightly we hear it praying the prayer
of paws passed over muzzle, the cleaning
and washing before it eats. We see its
shadow descending outside, beyond the opaque glass

of the bathroom window, hear the click of its nails
on the metal stairs. And what does it mean
to always see your passion embodied
in some other life, to stand near the one

who has prayed over your body and listen
together to what's beyond, what's outside,
and to know that what's missing is not something
the future will bring or time complete?