The wild ones are not
the ones out on the streets at night
clad in black and stainless steel.
Not the ones bed hopping
anointed in anonymous sweat.
The wild ones
are far more sinister than that
they pay taxes and set their alarms
every night.
They obey traffic laws and vote.
They’ve breastfed and baby worn.
The feral ones wear their scarred skin
of past cuts and scraped knees
and surgeries
(that is not polite to mention
at the dinner table.)
Those wild ones are far more dangerous.
Their savagery
always crouching inside
and ready to leap
while their carpool
or do the weekly shop.
They sometimes hold graduate degrees
and they may teach at universities,
or practice law,
or something else
equally respectable.
They sing to their babies
and they teach them to read
and they stay stoic while their bleeding.
They don’t make a fuss.
And sometimes,
sometimes
they break down
on the produce aisle.
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