I saw a lion on main street today.
It was dead as I passed by on my way to work.
Its legs crippled and body bloody.
I looked around the square, as passers-by dared not stare.
Middle-aged women cradled their groceries, and
businessmen side eyed the beast, as though it may beg for change.
Teenage boys poked it with sticks and the occasional knock off Nike,
A swift kick making the body roar up,
hoods concealing sinister laughs.
I keep my head down, sip my coffee,
and continue on my morning walk.
I saw a lion on main street today.
Its body was still there as I sat down for my lunch.
Its fur stained red, black marks painted its neck.
Across the square, police officers pulled thick chains from a tree.
Another, much closer, took a statement.
An elderly man, too proud for this scene, babbled back.
Mention of those teenage boys and a wrongfully placed racial slur.
"Maybe it was him!"
And I didn't have to look up to know the accused was vaguely Muslim.
A fight broke out, the officer dropping his pad to intervene.
And once again the lion was left, forgotten.
I saw a lion on main street tonight.
Barriers had been erected, then violated.
Its mane cut patchy from its head.
Some solacious act of human greed.
Maybe the lion hadn't been murdered.
Maybe it just looked around at the country it represented and keeled over,
deciding that it no longer wanted to be the face of this heartless nation.
Maybe no one murdered it.
Maybe everyone did.
I saw no lion on main street today,
only red staining mosaic tiles.
A lone council worker scrubbing tirelessly for minimum wage.
Though the outline of the red lion remained.
And maybe it should.
Maybe this story would be far greater than whatever was stated in those sun-bleached tiles.
Maybe this story is of us.
And maybe we should finally start acknowledging it.
