by Matt Gillick
Shadowed cross-hairs in an angered lion’s eyes.
Strolling across the kitchen floor with cliché
as impediment coating.
It moves forward, sneaking behind
the dishwater housewife, too pruny in the fingers.
But it slips, being too slippery for the fur
the lion’s initial, primary
and secondary pounces,
into a log-rolling fluff-ball trying to maintain its balance.
The housewife looks behind to see an empty kitchen,
at the scratched tiles.