In the savanna a tiger prowls,
but once tamed it can’t ever regain its power.
It will sit behind the man,
whose eyes will be glued to his paper,
his blank paper with no writing,
because his hand does not move.
A child will stand there for eternity,
not growing,
eyeing the man and his tiger,
with a puppet,
which she wanted to bring to her special spot
that is taken forever,
her flower crown dangling in sadness,
unable to take another step.
If the hot sun beats down,
the motionless people will not feel it.
If its rays blind them,
they will be blinded like they already are.
The plants should grow or wilt, but they do neither.
They have decided on their size,
they have decided to be immortal,
to not move,
to not dangle,
to not fall.
If there is no wind, the hot-air balloons are not floating.
If there is wind, it is not real,
in an already unreal clear blue sky.
The animals?
They just stare,
and even that they don’t do.
If you touched the lion it would not roar,
if you write something it will vanish,
if you take a step you’re stuck.
Everything is frozen, yet moving.
Bronx, NY
