Peanuts

I've had it with Big Red stealing all
the seeds from the squirrel-proof bird-feeder
he demolished in five minutes, making
a mockery out of merchandising and high-design.
When scolded, he scolds back, roaring
obscenities like some street kid.
Chipsy, on the other hand, can do no wrong,
cute as a button, eating from our hands,
one dainty nut as a time. We can't
get enough of her, so beautiful and
well-made, who runs over whenever
we call (if she's not doing cute other things).
But Big Red is always raising hell,
shaking branches, living off pinenuts,
never going out of his way to please.
When he stands on hindlegs, gaunt and
bowlegged, he's not what you'd call
goodlooking, not charming, no sweet
chipmunk. Not to mention he drove off
all the birds. I watch him make rounds,
peering into empty birdboxes where he
once made a killing. Brian is busy
courting Chipsy again with pistachios,
calling her by a dozen pet names she
follows like a bouncing ball.
Big Red fires up a maple, plugging
himself into a corner, rattling warnings.
He won't dance for his dinner.
Nobody will woo him. So I leave
peanuts, which he makes a grab for
in a hurry, looking over a shoulder
like a grizzled old bandit, not
appealing, not imaginative, not obedient
or even thankful, just persistently
and naturally himself.