Sunday, December 14, 2008


Your words are the wild beasts
you have tamed to your hand,
a petting zoo of courteous
crocodiles and cobras.

But my words are domesticated,
horses and dogs and roosters,
on guard, at work, carrying
themselves where best they serve.

Suppose, someday, a stranger,
an untutored tiger,
wanders into their midst?
Will it sleep before

my fireplace, purring
away its savage song?
Might it come to you,
ears begging to be scratched?

Or, wisely, it may turn
and disappear into
its jungle home; some words
remain wild animals.

Stephen Brooke ©2008

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