Exile and the Tiger

Exile falls like twilight on the cement yard

And the tiger approaches

Across the fake grass. Nonchalant,

He’s a don’t care merchant, rippling

His stripes as if the only thing of interest

Was the cut of whiskers on mouth.

He cannot decode the blackened stile

That closes off the 1950’s field

Where first I spied him

Snarling at destiny. Limbs

Vibrate against bars of cloudy vision.

His or mine? Home

Has been hunted to death and I

Am a clockwork hare, unworthy

Of his great teeth. I cannot scream

Authentically or conjure up

The dry savannah. Across

The recesses of his mind

Sun-dried antelopes lollop while I crouch

Faithfully on the veranda and wait

For rust to loosen the bars

For my tiger’s fangs to strike.