for G. W. Bush
by Jerome Gold
I stepped in some shit. It was round, not like
a cow's or a buffalo's, but like a
bear's, or a human being's. It wasn't
like a dog's. It was too thick, too perfectly
round, round without seam. It had too much heft
to be a dog's. Or so it appeared.
It could have been a human's, or a bear's.
It was about a foot long and, as I say,
almost perfectly round. There were no
wrinkles, no indentations. There were
no imperfections, none to be seen on the
surface, at least. The coloring was
uniform, a rich brown.
I was out walking. Taking a stroll
following my afternoon coffee.
It was a nearly glorious day: sun,
large, white clouds to make you think sailing
ships and the sea, a breeze with the
occasional gust to, say, six knots.
Light jacket weather; a thin windbreaker.
And there it was, on the sidewalk. (It was
probably not a bear's.)
I saw it.
I stepped in it.
Jerome Gold is the author of several books, including Sergeant Dickinson (a novel), Prisoners (poetry), and How I Learned That I Could Push the Button (personal essays). He is a founder of Black Heron Press, a literary book publisher.
