There once was a wolf in thought’s clothing —
he was as hungry a creature as ever lived.
He had his rights,
being a wolf,
to eat whatever flesh or carrion came his way.
or fight to the end, if need be, for the last scrap
if it would save his life to live another day.
He was called by many names.
But hunters do that
to improve the game.
Hemingway had his demons
and Churchill his black fugs.
and just to turn the tables,
Moby Dick had Ahab frothing after him
– like a rabid dog, if the analogy will
survive literary transgression.
As for Catholic girls
who’ve slipped out of uniform,
they sidle away from home and hearth,
to make their way unfettered,
sometimes find going difficult
but then, when there’s no way back,
sleep every night of their freedom
with guilt in sharp pursuit.
© 2010 by Leslie Silton
All Rights Reserved