The leopard paces, shudders, compulsively
licks his paws. He growls and we come to imagine
his growls an inhumane score, an avant-garde
sort of thing. The leopard devours a selection
of objects we inventory with pad and pen.
We name him Scott. Scott, want to go to the park?
The Cub Scout meeting? (Okay, bad idea.)
The zoo? Easy now, just kidding. That’s a hell
of a coat you’ve got—the famed print of beauty
parlor capes, gentlemen’s clubs, a cousin’s
waterbed sheets, a steering wheel cover.
Among big cats, lions and tigers get all
the credit, but wow! Yours is a certain brutal
élan. Can I get you a glass of chardonnay?
Maybe some Carole King on the hi-fi?
Why do I feel this way, Scott, like a roller coaster
junkie or oxygen starved climber summiting Everest?
Maybe it’s the strident cast of your eyes, the way
your muscles fire like pistons under that coat,
how you seem so eager to meet my embrace.
Sometimes I think you might be a beautiful
woman in leopard skin gown and false teeth and your
growls are the coded missives of love. But then
you go and eat one of the neighborhood pets.
Dan Pinkerton lives in Urbandale, Iowa. His stories and poems have appeared in Massachusetts Review, Boulevard, Boston Review, Denver Quarterly, Painted Bride Quarterly, Copper Nickel, Crazyhorse, and Cimarron Review, among others. Dan’s first book of poetry is Democracy of Noise. He can be found at www.dan-pinkerton.com.
Euphony Journal 