The Lion Waits

Amongst the potted palms And aspidistra’s leafed cover The lion paces Eyes agleam The only light In a darkened foot well Alert to sound Body poised Ears cocked, listening. Laughter, merriment An echo in the cavernous hall A sponge, wettened, waiting Drip, drip, drip Inaudible to all but he. Giggles, excited chatter The sound of footsteps On wooden floors, clatter Breezy “byes, good luck” Doors closing, with catch click His victim, chosen prey, descends The lion from cover pounces Sponging dreams He aims straight for the jugular As tears of black mascara rain Leaving greasy trails On water marked taffeta. The lion retreats His maiming done Leaving heaving prey In pools of lost dreams. Through his jungle He seeks to find A watering-hole, to quench His now ravening thirst. This king in a domestic jungle Of spoilt memories And lace picked holes Family proud His killing done And just the drip, drip, drip As leafy plumage Conceals. ©EMG04