SIM

It was all for a piece of you
(One has to make allowances I guess
For saints who spend a lifetime up the pole)
That poor old Sim, no words now only teeth
And flashing limbs and eyes and slabbering lips,
Chivyed you round our cave.
How you could run! You really whipped along.
Your pretty trotters swift as swallows’ wings.
You streaked more pink than sunset on the Nile.
Seeing the horror in his naked legs
And his intention in the kitchen knife.
Run Piggles run, I cried. You heard. You did!
I felt your bounced and wobbled anguish.
What saved you? Mayhap my big shiny frying-pan
With which I struck out at his matted hair
Lap after lap, and raised the yellow dust.


Months later, with that self-same kitchen knife
Raised by this arm, if only there had been
Some saint to thwack my dread locks with the pan,
But you are dead and eaten,
Most of you.