Lions and Cell Mates

What would I know?
What could I know?

Nothing, nothing nothing.

My spirit stalks
like a lion behind its bars.
You can tell he’s a killer
though he’s fat with ease.
His mane ripples yet his roar
is mute.

I hate the zoo.

I still know nothing of me
and nothing of you.
Nothing but the handlers
that feed me.

I spend time searching
finding the boundaries of my pen
and coming to know each inch,
I spend time making it mine
marking it —
claiming it.
But it is still a pen
and I am still in it.

I know nothing of lions,
come to think of it.
I only know exhibits
and cell mates.

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