Dancing Bear

Viktor starved the dancing bear
so all it thought about was fish,
and came to know feeding time
as a thing beneath a street light

on pavement busy with Man,
which crackled and cawed
an awful noise, poisoned,
mouths agape, lips upturned.

But, as long as he jumped up
and around, Viktor threw fish.
The red cap with dangly jewels
and a vest with gold stitching

announced a gypsy prince,
with a wretched curse of fur,
big as a parade’s bass drum.
Somehow, the bear could see

itself in a world of green moss,
bushes, and trees, where others
like him wandered in purpose
the same valley every year,

at bottom their friend, Stream,
after sleeping—yes, it recalled,
in near disbelief and love—
a sleep of giant boulders.

Berries? Where are berries?
Man made the bear weary,
yet aware of its size, claws,
teeth, muscle, growl, blood.

What are these gifts for?
The other world impossible.
Viktor. Fish. Viktor. Fish.
Viktor. Fish. Viktor…