He walks in beauty (like the
night), burning
tiger, burning bright, and
all that’s best of
dark and light meet in his
coat resplendent.
Muscle, shoulder, sinew,
sway, hips, and paws
and tail. Slender, long,
tall, not wide, hanging
nail black nail on nail. He
paces (“walks” would
be too weak), stalks us
through the bars. His game
is all a ripple, streak. He
crashes, halts,
demure. And deigns to smile
and kiss the cage,
and play at being tame. Or
being lazy
of a day, he’ll sprawl and
yawn and curl. All
creamy belly, floppy-pawed,
whiskers, tongue and fur.
But on a day of noisy guests
he goes into
his den. And I tell them
simply that
the
poem isn’t in.