Jabberwock Redux
We were never much
for a genuine fight,
somewhat on the slow side,
you might say, with jaws
that could barely bite through
the skin of a peach
and claws that couldn't peel
a tangerine, even if we tried.
Neither was there desire—
too old, almost lame,
the pleasure of the kill long gone
and a heart too weak
I lived alone without a mate
or friend to call my own.
Any Jabberwock with any sense
who is the last one of its kind
would take responsibility
turn the other cheek
avoid the beamish boy and flee
to the safety of its cave.
But I fought back
as if I were a teen again
and lost my head:
Oh yes, I really lost my head,
and now there are no Jabberwocks.
by Neil Ellman
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Neil Ellman lives and writes in New Jersey. Enough said.
