beagle borne
is the regal flea.
peering down in scorn
at the lowly
dust-mite
and his dust-smitten
progeny,
he carries on
or is carried,
i should say,
in his most peculiar way.
bitten by
of kings
and bitten by regret
he aims for
higher things;
perhaps that parrot
balanced on the
admiral
whose bugle blares -
his frugal airs
belying
his nobility;
although, admittedly
he's most unfit
for taking part
in hunting fox.
yet,
all in sport.
in glass retort
the doctors of the mind
consort.
a harried sort,
these harriers
and eager scottish terriers.
they aim
for game
of lower grade.
why do they seek
such meager prize?
perhaps to patronize
their so-called
masters -
hunters
of a hunted class.
in glass retort
the doctors of the mind
consort.
what are they
to find
when all is said and done?
the final blast
reveals
the fox concealed
the rabbits run
while i,
in leaping from my host
will land a higher post,
my carrier
just as blind.
in glass retort
the doctors of the mind
consort.
This poem was accepted for publication in Open Skies Quarterly, Volume 4.