Two Different Things Poem by michael hogan

A coyote paces the enclosure
his eyes looking toward the hills.
His paws had been stung by barbed wire, broken glass
until the pads were cracked and bloodied.
You brought him fresh water, healed his paws
and now you say you love him.

While he paces that enclosure
you cannot be free.

Part of his beauty
is the dream in his eyes of different places.
Whatever is human feels the need to possess
that, to tame that, to say: he's mine
if only for a moment, and then let go.
He might come back
depending less on gratitude and love
than on nostalgia for old places
a familiar voice.

In the meantime, there's you on one side
him on the other,
wanting two different things.
Something in you wishes he could be free
with your fence still around him.
Something in him will pull and tug
long after he leaves your hills.