By Thomas Page
“The Silver Tiger”

She slowly stalks

Her hapless hunt
Raising rigid razors
To talon tuna
From her food dish
Eating revenant resolves
Of old animals
Shaped silly small
Fabricated fish things
She sips sweetly
From fresh fountain
Wash-backed water and
Purrs proudly presently
Now noontide naps
Are adventitious plans
Securing soft sofa
In Sweet Sunlight
Curling comfortably there
She enters the
Land of reverie
Oases of outside
Banquets of birds
Side-dishes of squirrel
Aperitif of ants
Consumed subconsciously now
Noise notifies her
Ears to a new
Presence at her
Door. It’s them
Her precious pets
Eight times her
Size. She must
Greet them graciously
As any queen
Would her willing
Subjects. Silently she
Approaches the gate
Flanked alabaster walls
To welcome them
The door flies
Open to that
Silver tiger trying
To present proud
Display of dominance.
She is simply
Given gregarious pat
And left lonely
By the stairs.
She follows them
Up to their
Chained chambers with
White wooden walls
The door dwelling
Loosely locked now
She shoves her
Head through it
Roars to announce
Her daily debut.

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