Longing to be a Maserati I look to my turtle for comfort.
I could learn to love this guy since he is what I have,
begin to see him in the moon instead of a man
or a rabbit (as some insist); pass long moments
gazing into his nictitating membranes as they nictate —
time I’d rather spend traversing the autostrada
at one-sixty, both tanks filled to the max
with benzina, blasting Die Walküre on the Blaupunkt;
if I were a limited-edition 1972 Indy, that is.
Instead, I’ll watch him show off a tarantella he learned
while flipped on his back or see him heave up to the log
I added to his murky pond where daily I check the pH
to maintain a constant salutary level. Rain or shine,
I’ll feed my turtle blood oranges, stroke the olive drab
army helmet he must wear for protection, all
warm from sun-bathing or shiny slick from water.
He will pose for me on a rock. I’ll frame the picture
as I would a self-portrait in profile if I were an Italian sports car.
Patiently I will listen to him go on about his preference of the English
turtle over tortoise, hoping that he, too, doesn’t yearn for the open road.