The Cage

 

by Brett Rutherford

Trapped in the lion’s cage,
stalked by the famished cat
that circles him, eyes locked
onto his own terrified orbs,

there is no place to hide,
except the steamer trunk
from which the roaring beast
might perch and leap,

and a large wardrobe
whose doors, ajar,
might close around him
if he hid within —

then what? Outwait
the mounting appetite
of the clawed predator?
It would only get hungrier.

He chances it, leaps in,
pulls shut the double doors,
and, thank god, there is a hook
to keep it from opening.

Lion in cage, man in wardrobe.
Tooth and claw threatened him
 — but what had he?
He fumbles in the dark. What if
this wardrobe had a cache of guns,

or the lion-tamer’s whip,
one snap of which would send
the tamed beast cowering
into a safe corner?
Has he been riddled thus
to solve it? Will those
outside the cage applaud
his feat and release him?

Alas, no whip, no cold,
long cylinder of rifle.
Up and above his back
there is something soft.
A cold snout touches
the nape of his neck,
as the unmistakable reek
of rotten meat announces

the Lion within.