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It would be a shame if something wild
became domestic.
If it started wearing sweaters,
collecting records,
or looking in the mirror
and having a definite opinion
of what it saw reflected back.

It would be shame if something wild
thought it was the right thing to do.
That it was a matter of convenience;
having found — either slowly like a sickness
or suddenly like a shock —
that it was bored, scared,
and a little unfulfilled.

It would be a shame if something wild
sat in its La-Z-Boy,
practicing chord structure
on a secondhand banjo.
Or conceiving nuance.
Having so many options
to do nothing well — all night long.

It would be a shame.
But it would be okay.
Because these things happen.
Better, I guess, than someone domestic
— in a spark of violence
or a lull of decline — becoming wild,
detached, and unaccountable.

“What? Who cares?” –Me

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