Wild things are better left
to trample tall grasses underfoot in open savannahs.
Concrete walls and lounge chairs are optional for them.
Occasionally one will slip on a pair of trousers
or wiggle into a skirt with heavy rusching.
They've been known to sip cups of tea, pinky finger extended
while nibbling cucumber sandwiches.
Don't be fooled by such antics.
Wild things undo the carefully ordered lives
of more docile, domesticated creatures.
Rules chafe tough hides, routines dull the senses.
Vows of commitment burn too deeply, making wild beasts run amok
turning over furniture, breaking heirloom china.
A spectacle certain to shock the neighbors, to frighten small children.
The next time a beguiling stranger strolls toward you... inhale deeply.
If you detect the pungent musk of something feral.
Find yourself gazing into dark, gypsy eyes.
Beware the wild things.
Back away! Back away!
Slowly back away.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem