Deep in caged past
a lion sat in shade
its eyes on a track
of dry paw prints
Inside a glass box
as big as a lounge
he ignored a slab
paced himself thin
He swam in circles
blind as a fish
grimed and bubbling
over untouched grass
We went on, lamenting
Where else could he go?
now, down my street
at dusk in windows
I see lions yomping
