Johnny James

Back in the burbs,
instead of a pool in his yard
Johnny kept a tiger
as a pet and a guard.

The neighbors complained.
Johnny explained
that while sometimes children might drown in pools,
none had been eaten or even drooled;
and while dogs ran free pooping on grass
Lady lived in a cage, the bonny lass
cleaned daily and if anybody wants
some droppings, stop by for a load
because in your garden, once stowed,
the scent of tiger scares away deer.

But the town council, ruling by fear
passed a law against cats
exceeding one hundred pounds
so Johnny sought grounds
in the mountains
where your neighbors are few
and just as crazy as you.

Way back in the hills, to pay the bills,
he raised sinsemilla, a small patch.
But a solitary farmer is no match
for helicopters, infrared photos,
or a barfly's tattletale.
The sheriff took Johnny to jail.

That night from the Pacific blew a storm,
nature's rage,
which set off a landslide,
destroying the cage,
and Lady escaped - injured -
you could see from the tracks.

Johnny could've gotten her back
but he was "in custody"
and besides, the deputies wanted big game.
From all over California they came
in four wheel drives bristling rifles, seeking fame.
Through muddy hills and valleys they slid.
Sensibly, Lady hid.

For a while every sheep, dog, or chicken
killed by coyotes or with disease stricken
was blamed on Lady until at last
finding her cornered, cowering under a barn,
with a blast
they shot her dead.
Now the sheriff has a tiger skin on his wall,
clippings with his name in the paper,
a small time farmer behind bars,
and I don't feel one bit safer.

from Son of a Poet