The Last Tiger

Another dodo moment:

impossible for homo sapiens

to avoid making it

an all-ticket spectacular,

one to capture for the memory,

to savour, as it were,

with a titillating soupçon

of collective shame

kicking in as an after-goût.

More kudos than being

at someone’s last concert,

before he died? Perhaps.

Trailing something of the rescuee

brought blinking out of the foetid jungle

to be told the war was over,

this fabled feline was fuming

in his fake forest, cursing

conservation’s c**k-up,

though with penis still intact.

He padded towards me,

his smouldering eyes two poniards,

his sneering snarl rasping

like an imperial accusation

I really didn’t deserve.

That was when I jostled

to the front of the crowd,

calmly steadied my aim,

and intrepidly bagged him.

He didn’t feel a thing.

I felt elated:

I had the screensaver to die for.

I duly paused for reflection

at the memorials to the dead keepers.

.

Reviews

[Chris Shaw]

I love this write. No tigers died in the making of this poem. Such an original concept and what a reward you have.

Chris

[Gerald Parker]

Thank you for liking this, Christine.