Panthera Poem by Ernest Hilbert

They come to view the creature in its cage.
It clutches its bale, stalks its small square,
Licks its sides beneath rust-blot clouds.
It tamps down a long dwindled pang of rage
In the warm murmur of mid-summer air.
It seethes in sleep before sighing, fleshy crowds.
Why does all this largess feel like a trap?
Fresh meat dangling streamers of clammy blood,
Freedom from the grueling search for prey,
Penned, but allowed to lounge all noon and nap,
Permitted, on rare occasion, to stud,
Growl half-heartedly at bars, but never stray,
Constrained by this contract, compelled to trade
Strength for slow half-life, and weaken in shade.