(With apologies to Ray Bradbury)
A bright and neon mall now stands,
where once the dark woods were
and buildings rise around it
like a jagged crown of thorns
dropped on a field of black grass
cropped short by herds of cars.
He’d lived there for so long
there was no thought of moving,
but once the game had dwindled
he found that deer and rabbits
are not the only prey
with soft, juicy bellies.
Crouched beneath Mustangs,
Cougars and Jaguars,
still as their shadows
he waits for the children
whose parents don’t care
what time they come home.
These sweet, writhing morsels
he carries to his culvert home.
He sleeps on piles of bones,
shining in the moonlight
that shimmies in
over the murky water.
This forest reeks, screams,
masks his scent with fumes
and burning rubber,
drowns his howls of joy
in the squeal of tires
and the blare of angry horns
The cops don’t believe
the ones that get away,
their wild-eyed tales
fall on unbelieving ears
and the missing kids
are tallied up as runaways.
He’s grown sleek and muscled
and the pads of his feet
are tempered hard by asphalt.
Claws sharpened on rebar
tap dance – click-click
in time with his stride.
He has one moon green eye
fixed on his next meal
but this one watches back
with cold grey eyes.
This one’s tough
as old crow’s wings.
Something in its hand,
something dark and metal cold,
something that stinks
of oil and acrid smoke,
A dark blue glint
under the humming lights.
This defiance enrages him!
Claws dig into asphalt.
Righteous muscles bunch
and launch his anger
into thunder and light
that lasts forever.
The boy blows the smoke
from the barrel
like an old school cowboy.
“Cool, you got it,” his friend says,
“What is it, a dog?”
“Who the fuck cares?”