If only he had stuck to painting murals,

if only he wasn’t driven by nature

and run over constantly

by the Greyhound buses that skipped

and lolled through the desert

and 92 degrees heat, if only

he wasn’t such an arsehole,

we might have liked him more.

 

If only he had found a way

to curb his appetite,

to not clip the wings

of his bird

of prey, of his chosen meal

that would stop his mind from being obsessed,

if only he could change that nature,

then perhaps he would not be a considered a fool.

 

If only Wile. E. had stuck to the brief

when he ran for office

as part of a new wave of cynicism

that rode through the desert

on the coat tails of the Road Runner,

broken beak and cunning brain

colliding with damaged thoughts and untrained mind,

then perhaps he might have realised

just how stupid he was.

Ian D. Hall 2017