Front Porch Review
A literary magazine for the young at heart and mind

                                                                        Did he who made the Lamb make thee?
                                                                        William Blake, The Tyger

There’s a hitch in my gait,
my step less sure, escape
no longer a given.
I’ve begun to twitch when barren
branches whisk the windows.

Overhead,
                        out of sight,
                                    behind the door,
                                                locked

against escape, the tiger coughs –
a fist against a side of flesh.

(No, not the diorama tiger
staring out from a landscape of the past
stuffed into an attitude of mock ferocity.)

He’s been pacing for decades up there
as if he were the prisoner.
The floorboards creak beneath
the weight of his intent.

How long till he finds the back stairs,
the not-so-hidden passage?
In every mirror I see his face
in mine, his fearful symmetry
my own, and breathe his carrion
breath, as he whispers, “Relax,
it won’t take
                        but an eon.”

By David Hart

David Hart was born and raised, more or less, in Galesburg, Illinois, a small town and birthplace of another poet, Carl Sandberg, who was heartily detested by those locals who knew him. The main diversions in Galesburg were dating, beer and golf. David didn't play golf, but he did manage to read a couple of books before he left for college. He majored in English at Northwestern with the hope of being a writer ─ fame, women, wine and long hair ─ but decided he could make a better living at something less reputable. He attended Harvard Law School, practiced in Chicago for about thirty years, retired early, lost his hair, and is dependent upon his wife for support in his dotage.