Patrick Mahomes Becomes a Hawaiian Monk Seal
After my transmogrification
Mahalo ke akua I
am still deviously hard to catch–
slipping in and out of lanes
so fast the tiger shark despairs of a meal
while I’m off to dine on fish and lobster,
octopus, and the much slower eel.
I feel as athletic as back-when days
pinpointing Tyreek on a deep crossing route,
watching him lay out over the endzone.
But even as agile as I am it's hard
to elude the dragging trawl net’s death-cone,
me hurtling headlong into its mouth,
unlike the days of relative ease
when ends and backs would flush me
out of the pocket and into the open–
I wish for open unfettered seas.
So I safety time out on the beaches
resting under lazy sun,
clunky-slow on awkward flippers
galumphing around with a huddle of buddies,
more of whom disappear each day,
never returning from hunting forays,
caught, or killed, or sickened with the plastics
swirling here in the island currents
turning us all into collection sacks.
But back in the ocean how I do come alive!
Watch my moves, my leap-out and touch-down!
Ilio-holo-i-ka-uaua,
I am the dog that runs through rough water,
launching off waves, dropping to depths,
skimming the shallows. Now though
my world here is growing more hostile,
slowly, like haze glazing over Kansas City.
There’s dread in these waters, like cephalopod ink,
an expanding cloud of a dark fairy tale
with a witch and a brew and the monks in the dungeon,
only this time I fear it’s all coming true.
