So, it turns out that yesterday, December 4th,
was International Cheetah Day.
Who knew?
I missed it, regretfully,
lost in the blur of a day that dashed by.
Had I known, what would I have done to celebrate?
Maybe made a modest donation to the Cheetah Conservation Fund?
Or perhaps something bolder, more intriguing.
I could have strolled casually to the zoo
and gazed at these spotted sprinters,
lazing in poor approximations of vast savannahs,
worlds away from their wild grasslands.
No longer fierce hunters,
but prisoners awaiting meals delivered
at regular intervals through cell doors.
Suddenly, one would approach the glass,
and, glancing around for guards,
I’d lean in close
to share a whispered plot,
a moonlit jailbreak.
His ears might twitch with a spark of hope,
our eyes locked in covert complicity,
as I outline our daring midnight escape.
For a fleeting moment, he’d be captivated,
tail flickering with the thrill of a real run.
But then,
with wisdom in his gaze,
he would silently decline.
Understanding the odds, the reality –
quickly captured again,
certainly sent to solitary,
if not shot on sight in the urban jungle.
I would nod, sadly, place my fist against the glass,
and he, with a furry paw, would do the same,
a gesture of solidarity.
Then, I’d slowly walk away,
a conspirator without a cause,
wishing to offer more than fanciful thoughts,
and desperate daydreams,
on this day dedicated to his species.
This poem was originally published in Kindred Characters, the debut issue of Lark and Owl Booksellers’ literary journal.
The Truth About Tigers 