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Nemo is a monster
Tearing the fabric of life,
Fattening on bones and muscles,
And weaving a mattress of hairs.
It wings its way through self-cosmology,
And gathers unripe fruits
Of other's labors
Crunching, munching and mashing.
He is there when least expected,
Waiting at the curb of the road,
Before the intersection,
When the traffic lights turn green.
A green-eyed monster, not easy to recognize,
For chameleon-like he wriggles out
Through by lanes to yet another spot,
Panting and waiting.
When I was young I once caught it
With few stones and a rope,
It begged for release,
Was deferential, and polite,
Went on a fast for a whole day,
Cried and cajoled me,
Tempted me with gifts from
The life of others, but I refused.
Believe me, he was cunning
When caught,
Fawning when afraid,
Demure when detained,
Demanding next to nothing,
Looking woebegone,
Only waiting quite patiently,
For a reprieve.
Young, as I was,
I felt a shiver of mercy run
Through my bone-marrow,
And released him in the sun.
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