Returning home at dusk, pickup loaded,
a giant plant beside me all arms and legs vibrating
to Ollie North’s testament of national righteousness,
I scan for doe along the winding mountain road,
imagine when I hit one, how I’ll put her down
partly broken, grimace at how long ago
I smashed a wounded cottontail with a rock
just as my headlights strike a woman, middle-age-chubby,
weaving heavy in the soft drizzle plastered with mud.

She flags me down, waving her arms like a weeping willow.
She says she’s stuck in a rut on up the mountain,
that she’s drunk too much and lost her way
and she’ll give me money if only I’ll haul her to Viola
pointing the wrong way as I help her
into the back of the truck because I’ll be damned
if I’m going to sacrifice my plant for this mud-caked drunk
and because I don’t know what else to do with her.

We head down the mountain and she starts banging on the cab
mouthing other way, other way, her stringy hair
matted to her face like moss on a wet rock.
At the crossroads I make a U-turn and pull up
beside a young beauty in a fancy Toyota pickup.
She volunteers to take the lost woman off my hands.

Heading back up the mountain,
I again strain the night
for any wayward doe,
more certain than ever before
I can put her down.