Classic Poem

I have some sympathy for that cat
who paces, paces his pismire-
pavemented dungeon—three short strides,
then blink and turn,
then blink and turn—much marvelled at:
“Mama, how come he walks like that?”

“He wants t'get out, Richie, he sees
d'monkey.” But the sign belies
any specified hunger: BORN AND RAISED
IN CAPTIVITY.
Captivity. He walks because
his heart is hunting.

Those soft paws,
although they never fell thereon,
measure the breadth of Africa;
that throat and belly are athirst
for blood of bulls,
for blood of bulls; the pale eyes shine
back at the Mountains Of The Moon.

I have some sympathy for one
whose office-space is small, at whom
civilization gapes because
he can't keep still,
keep still a body forged and honed
to bring the Mammoth crashing down.











By permission of the author.