I Am An Old Lion
Gone in the teeth
I lie around waiting
for wife to bring home
the groceries, the killings.
Meanwhile I pay the bills and watch
the cubs fight over the remains of the estate.
Maybe it’s time to lick them into shape.
Perhaps I should eat them. Not now. Maybe later.
I’ll just lie here now and dream of pawprints —
track them around the lake and imagine away
the plaque of years.
Oh, how fast I used to lope.
Old Wallaby, she’d call me. I wish she’d pad home.
The catarrh of old roars gravels my throat.
No more to do than itch the flies
stitching my stomach.
I am tired of the kits.
I miss my pard.