A cold winter night, three raccoons
in the persimmon tree, three clowns
lurching around, branches sagging,
springing, the whole tree quivering—
at its top, the crown jewel, the last
and best of all persimmons, toward which
one raccoon makes his careful slow way
across a branch, reaches with two hands,
grabs, tugs hard, juggles it, teetering—
the other raccoons watch as this
knucklehead in his confusion lets go
of everything—persimmon, branch,
dignity — flips head over tail,
plunges through branches, snags
a limb, and hangs by his hands—
meanwhile the persimmon hits the ground,
and it’s a race to see who can get it—
the smallest scoops it like a football
and begins on three legs to run—
which doesn’t work—another
grabs it, loses it to the third, and they all
tumble down the road, the persimmon
bobbling among them like a moon
on fire, as into the night, scrabbling
and careening, they disappear.