Little Mister Leopard sets atop, stares
intently; wants to divine my purpose
shaded. Couched in syllables fair, now harsh,
now kind, now cloaked in sly contempt, the jaded
shroud thrown to shield bones brittle:
another's ego, though perhaps my own.
I've been reading Cham - the Ursa Major
of English literature's critics - at least
the part I call home; of a day and grace
I cannot mimic and neither can you.

Copyright 2007 Rosalind Harbin

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