The Feed Poem by Joseph D E Phillips

A lion paces
the cage of the head
of the bipedal mammal
who dreams

but the dream
is a door is an unlocked lock
and the lion doesn't know
what a lock is.

Meat is a hand
is a box is a screen
and he chews on the feed
every hour.

This sustenance
waifs to the nose of the cat
and the menu was fixed
by connivers.

The meat is a hand
is a box is a screen
is a morphine dripping into
veins that are highways.

The cars and the trucks are now
creeping like snoops and they
watch every move
as he mulls over feed.

For hours for days
deaf to the motives
he prays to the porcelain god
to be heard.

Prayers flow in streams
to the box to the screen
to be eaten by lions who pace
in their cages

but the dream is still locked
the food bittersweet
and he still doesn't know
what a lock is.