With roaring tigers leaping at you
and all exits sealed like Egyptian tombs,
with gladiator gear on and emerald shield
you advance against the almighty godless
son of the son you wear as your own.
You ravage your way across arid deserts
and jungles swarming with anacondas
having at least been astute enough
to pack a nice lunch and favorite flute.
And then you take off like Superman
flying high above man-made cities,
glissandos quickening across equators.
And when the pretty minions of your
petty dominion turn pink, you die.
___
Thomas Piekarski is a former editor of the California State Poetry Quarterly. His poetry and interviews have appeared in Nimrod, Portland Review, Kestrel, Cream City Review, Poetry Salzburg, Boston Poetry Magazine, Gertrude, The Bacon Review, and many others. He has published a travel guide, Best Choices In Northern California, and Time Lines, a book of poems. He lives in Marina, California.
