The young men
who like lion cubs
still dance and fall
upon one another
in imaginary wars
are now galloping
towards the fresh snow,
swaddled in enough
clothes to remind
them they are not
meant for this world.
They hold their skis
and poles in a bushel.
They are by all accounts,
looking to feel heroic,
and I, either an
old lion, or weathered
lioness will prowl
this artificial savannah,
lazily chasing down books
and elusive poems,
crouching in the thick
brush of my king size bed,
eyeing a plump sestina
which has wandered from the herd.
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