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,
(and more kudos
than being at Michael Jackson’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 cock-up,
(though with penis still intact.)

Suddenly, he padded towards me,
two poniards in his smouldering eyes,
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.



© nemo 2019
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critique and comments welcome.

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