The Minotaur Dreams Of His Dinner Poem by Sheena Blackhall

What'll they prod into the maze tonight?
Some plump, pigeon breasted matron with succulent thunder thighs?
A gymnast, stringy and gnarled like a skinned meerkat?
A granny, white faced as a peppermint smelling of pee?
Or a juicy, skipping child, with fingers sweet as rasps?

Perhaps a bald banker with a paunch
And withered haunches, testicles like walnuts
Or an alpine skier, chilled, with powerful knees

Perhaps it'll be a minister, peak faced, mournful
A touch on the sour side
Or a pickled publican
Or an amuse bouche of a baby

I sit in my dark lair, wistful and hungry
Nothing to do but wait for my next meal