I was thinking about hyena spots, claws,
and predilections for aging,
living lion flesh. The greatest
dog-cat fights are
lion-hyena bouts, which
is an inaccurate statement
since hyenas aren’t canines.
That’s beside the point:
just imagine packs of hundred-pound
razorbacked grunters tooth to tooth
with quarter-ton kitties.
Makes me dwell on
my own mortality,
modern homo sapiens being
lucky or unlucky enough
not to have to worry
about becoming parts
of the macrobiotic diets
of other mega fauna.
We go through life thinking
in the end, we’ll be composting
worm meat. We worry about whether
or not we’ll be loved, remembered,
alone; in heaven or hell or the ground;
whether we’ll die slowly, painfully,
or quickly, suddenly.
Whereas lions know from the get-go
they’ll be killing hyenas literally
until the day they die when those
same carnivores will eat them quite alive.
No pretense of quiet ends, heartfelt goodbyes.
The empty wild, fangs, howls, yips,
blood-matted hair, and eager snouts
munching intestines.
If I had a lion’s outlook,
I think I’d be keen to get
more done while I’m still
in the good graces
of the pride.
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