I try to out wait
the lizard on the road,
his head turned so that
his left eye can size me up.
I realize he will out last me
in the sun,
but wait a little longer
before I concede.

Sometimes I see one of them
hurrying across the road,
high on his legs,
looking more like a road runner
than a reptile.

Other times I find the ant-covered
remains dropped by the cat,
a head or a tail missing,
a leg and foot snapped off.

I watched a lizard on a patio once,
and tried to write a poem
to unborn children,
naming them lizard
in a Buddhist tradition
someone told me of,
and now I know
no more
what became of it
than I do of them.