WOLF AT THE DOOR

WOLF AT THE DOOR

There's a wolf in waiting at my door,
Ever so slightly he whines at the moon.
In the midst of strife, in the twilight of my life,
His song is discordant and out of tune.

This mighty excuse for a canine,
Whose moans resemble a whine,
I guess he means to threaten me,
In all his churlish devilry.

But I have come to know him well,
To worship at his evil altar,
To tempt him with the smell of blood
As my steps they flail and falter.

There's a wolf in waiting at my door,
Baring fangs and pacing the floor.
I tempt him with a sacrifice,
The flesh and bone they do entice.
I tell him I'm not ready yet,
But will be soon and do not fret.
For human life, it is short and staggers,
Like a drunkard felled by demon daggers,
That slice like phantoms in the dark,
Snuffing out the slightest spark.

The wolf just smiles in disbelief
And bares his nasty yellow teeth.
And lunges hard against the wood,
In this God forsaken space
Where my feet once stood.

The wolf is impatient, carnivorous, cruel,
And man is a petulant, self-involved fool,
Secure in his knowledge there is always more time,
Sure of survival, skating thin on a dime.
Cutting down the wondrous trees he once planted,
Taking his friends and his lovers for granted.

Meanwhile the wolf shows signs of distress,
Tired of his relentless waiting,
Tired of whining, now he bays,
Relentlessly he taunts and haunts me,
Twenty-four hours a day.

The wolf is always at my door,
And will be now forevermore.
Baring his teeth, sharpening his grotesque nails,
Tightening his grip on this sinking ship,
Ripping a hole in the flapping sails.

-Bruce Potts
Revised Copyright 2015
ALL RIGHTS RESERVED