Ode to the Wolf at My Door

The Lupine Harbinger of Poverty
Everyday I await in anticipation.
I never know how generous you will be.

The sound of gravel under tires,
the mailbox slamming shut.

Oh Postman!
Oh Postman!

Nothing; not rain, sleet, or snow
keeps him from delivering you to me.

Soon, I hold you in my arms.
More of you than I had ever dreamed.

You are so large and ferocious.
I have to allow you in my door.

As I sit at my desk,
My paper shredder at my knee,

I open the gifts you bring.

Could it be?
Could it be?

Credit card! Cell phone! Electricity!
Cable! Internet! Car Insurance!

Doctor! Dentist! Radiologist!
Bank, Credit Union, Taxes!

It's all for me!

As I slide my knife to open you,
I feel the only satisfaction I seem to be allowed.

Your innards go in the ever growing pile.
Your skin goes through the paper shredder.

It is your skin that is your gift to me.
As it plays a small part in feeding my family.

I put it in my compost bin, you see.
To make the best soil its what I need.

Oh the food I grow from your decompose!
Without it my garden, it would die.

At times you are overly generous.
I seem to have too much.

I end up shredding the innards from last month.
But then I have enough to share!

The critters at the Humane Society are grateful.
Their cages are now lined within.

They snuggle down into the softness that was you.
Because I filled the bottom of the cages with pieces of your skin.*