Coyote walks through The Presidio park with a candy bar in his hands. As he licks chocolate off his furry fingers, he drops the candy wrapper in the shadow of eucalyptus bark. A woman ambling by gawks at the plastic falling through redwood air.
“Pick that up! A Coyote shouldn’t litter!” “Well I’ll pop off my head. I won’t be Coyote anymore. Then I can litter.” Coyote rips his head off his body. “You’re still Coyote. You’re just holding your head like a basketball.” “I’ll peel off my Coyote fur.” Coyote disrobes himself like a tangerine. “So you’re a naked Coyote. A naked Coyote shouldn’t litter.” “I’ll take out my heart.” Coyote throws his heart into a rose garden. The organ got lost in an ocean of red. “A heartless Coyote is still a Coyote,” the woman yelps. “I got it — I’ll cut out my brain.”
Coyote runs his consciousness over to a hungry homeless man living in a tent. “I just gave that man his dinner. I’m no longer Coyote. I can litter now.” “Yes, your carcass is now littering the forest. Scavengers are circling fresh trash.”
About the Author
Keith Mark Gaboury earned a MFA in Creative Writing from Emerson College. His poems have appeared in Poetry Quarterly and New Millennium Writings as well as in chapbooks from Duck Lake Books and The Pedestrian Press. He has a forthcoming chapbook from Finishing Line Press. Keith lives in Oakland, California. Visit him on the web at keithmgaboury.com.