Friday, 3 April 2015

3/30! Tiger Crimes!

Don't call it pacing, don't call it a cage.

After what happened to the tabbies out on fifteenth.
After the disappeared ocelots started turning up
as rugs and lampshades. 
After few feral sentinels keeping columbia city's rats
in check laid bloody in rows by the condominium
penitentiary complex. 

Don't call it purring, don't call it a stage.

After the bobcats left town, tree by tree
and the Lion's roaring came half-hearted,
a show for the kids, but not running the show.
After Ms. Jonesbury's feline hostel 
burnt to the ground and all that was left
were stripes.

The cheetahs can't run any faster,
the jaguars cling to the tree limbs
of the arboretum like they're holding
onto their mothers.

Don't call it pacing, as you watch, 
don't call it burning, it's not as bright
as you think, or someone would've noticed.
Don't Kipling out on some essentialist trip,
this is just how the city goes now,
paws licking slowly, over the whole town.

Here kitty, kitty. 

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