Fierce and fleet and full of meat
A tiger’s walking down my street.
His tongue wipes at his sticky chin
He’s had his fill of pedestrian.
Sleek and flair, so debonair
The tiger softly climbs my stair.
His heavy feet, the creaking floor,
He noses open my study door.
All rank and ripe and rippling stripes,
The tiger crouches as I type
I try to finish before he leaps
I CNTL-S save and die without a peep.
(Just a little something I was thinking about on the way home last week. It’s been running through my head ever since. I like the first stanza a lot, actually — everything else was tossed in for fun this evening. If it ever really goes somewhere, I’ll post it here. As opposed to The New Yorker where most of my other work ends up.