timing

Timing myself on
an antique watch, which
they pretty much all are, by this time -

I am running my thoughts half-speed, to see
if the seconds will stretch, whether
only in perception
or memory,
I am pacing

a personal best. Like tigers
in cages, prepared to eat. But so much preferring

to kill. Such is life. Lost a step,
you're selected out. Your use is now

almost complete.

You hang ripe

for the kill, as your juices turn
inside, and you exercise this last

of your lives.

The approach
will be slow,
and bittersweet. Taut

as a bowstring, sharp

as a knife, inhaling the scent

of somewhere close by,

the meat.