What’s a tiger but a bright, orange cat
who naps all day but doesn’t get fat?
How does he stay muscled and lean
when he eats and eats and sleeps between?
Sure, now and again, he’ll chase a gazelle.
Unlike my cat, who’s trained me with a bell
to deliver food to a bowl right under her nose
lest I hear the pitiful yowl of hunger throes.
But when chasing prey, tigers never run long.
He picks slow and weak over fast and strong.
And you’ll never see him run in the mid-day sun,
and he’ll always be napping when his meal is done.
[National Poetry Month: Poem #14]