A pack of handsome Coyotes met
just after dusk under a fallen fir
near the edge of the arboretum
to discuss why you never called back,
and what this could mean.
They cleaned their bushy bushy tails
asked each other for assurance that
their tails were attractive. Why didn’t you call back?
It was probably that thing they said last Saturday
about women’s basketball—they were just trying to be funny,
and they were nervous—but they do respect women’s athletics.
Together they let a muffled howl drift
over the horizon, hoping you’d hear it
and recognize it as an apology. They meant no offense.
The distraught canines wondered:
what more could they do?
A poem? Feats-of-strength?
Lose a few pounds?
Eat your ex-boyfriend's cat?
They sat with these questions,
occasionally letting a melancholic whimper
escape from under their breath.
The trees countenances became downcast
as they eavesdropped around the perimeter of the Coyote moot.
Coyotes can reach levels of lonesomeness
unimagined by the rest of the animal kingdom.
The tallest one stumbled
on a conclusion he found
convincing: they must wear ties.
No woman has ever ignored
a coyote wearing a tie.