Tigers slipped out of my hot saké
while London quietly exited. Taxis
and long winding streets jungled
around my ankles. At Victoria, commuters
boiled themselves to bright eyes,
like cartoons. Stepping away proved
impossible since you held my gaze
and only you might tame the tigers
slinking in the landscape like paintings.
These were not the tigers stolen
from documentaries, from films.
They moved almost Chaplinesque
when stalking prey, couldn’t have caught
the moon even if it offered itself.
Was that moment I realised I needed bars
to keep everything locked down?
Walking back home, streetlight shadows
hit like beams and I stood in them
for a second while your number cocked
in my pocket, took aim.