Toothless Lion

Do you dream, toothless lion, of conquests;
the gazelle's neck, bloodshed, the golden floor
falling away beneath the pads of your paws. Do
you hate the hand that feeds you, faces between
the bars inspecting you, analyzing, speculating
on the origin of your scars. You blame them
for disbanding the pride, for the road lines that
divide your territory, for stealing your former glory,
your teeth and claws, muzzle, mane and maw.
What remains but memories? Security destroys
you. They feed you soft food without bones and
lead you on a rope around a small enclosure. A
kept lion without enemies, without cause to roar.
Sometimes at night you wake with the scent of
the Serengeti on your breath, a whiff of sun and
heat, a wisp of dream and its daylight death.
You feel concrete and straw beneath your limbs.
Your rising voice dies in your chest.