DC Playwrights

squirrel asks what i thought
of the recent joseph beuys exhibition at the hirshhorn.
i tell him that i found the work –
i hesitate, but i use the word anyway –
“derivative”
and that beuys seems to be repeating himself.

squirrel says nothing
knowing full well that the show was a retrospective.

“what did you think?” i ask,
expecting the squirrel
to ramble on about art not being about beauty,
to quote from lyotard or danto,
but all he says is:
“you know beuys has been dead for 20 years?”

my point exactly.

squirrel looked at my bookshelf and asked:
“hey, you read all them books?”
i said to the squirrel:
“you know all them nuts you been burying in my yard?
you eat all them nuts?”
to that he said: “touché.”
and i said:
“well one day i plan to.”
sadly the squirrel said:
“you better not.”

i wasn’t sure if the squirrel was sad
because he feared he might be hungry
if i ate all his nuts,
or maybe it was because
he didn’t know how to read.

squirrel tells me that his translation
of the aeneid is better than john dryden’s.
and i said, “okay, squirrel,
how do you top ‘arms and the man i thee sing’?”
to which the squirrel replied,
“skeeek, skeeek, skeeeeek.”

this morning i heard a squirrel
outside my window utter
“eli, eli lama sabbachtani.”

to this squirrel
who has a lovely fur coat,
all the acorns he could ever eat,
free housing, good schools,
i replied: “you are insatiable!”

i closed the window
for i will not let this squirrel
dampen my optimism
and continued brushing my teeth
with lead-free toothpaste.