Predator

Here at the lodge, the deer come out
At evening to feed on the lawn. By now,
It's March, the forest isn't offering too much
To them. I see their heads bowed low to
Eat, and watch, when I have come outside,
As they look up. They heard the door. They
Stare and freeze, and leave me wishing that
I could explain to them that I don't harbor
Ill intentions. I don't plan to leave the deck,
Don't have a gun or bow. I'm useless as
A predator, too old, too lazy, satisfied with
Meat that comes in neat containers, carved
And bled by others, and, they ought to know,
From pigs and cows, not deer. Their fears
Are not assuaged. They slowly go back
To the trees. I understand. They can't,
And shouldn't, trust that this one human differs
From those others who have mounted heads
Of deer, perhaps their relatives, upon
The lodge's walls.



Poetry by Lawrence Beck The PoetBay support member heart!
Read 26 times
Written on 2020-03-07 at 15:21

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