Tuesday, February 8, 2011

A wounded animal's lament


I'm tired of being the wolf,
ravished and snarling,
circling patiently for the
slightest nibble of
a bit of meat.
I'd rather starve.


I dream that I have
a new wool coat,
soft and white, unlike
Philadelphia snow,
stomped with grime
from excessive habitation,
and plotting retaliation
with her hardened black ice.
It covers my weather beaten
form, which spells out
my bad decisions, embedded,
in ink.


If I play hard to get,
will you chase me?
Like children calling
duck, duck, goose,
when I tap your shoulder,
will you rise to the challenge
and bring me down,
ripping open my neck
in your conquest,
and then savor your meal,
or abandon me for the vultures?

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