Brian Sirmans

June 26, 2009

Final Poem #1

The Hunted

 

A hunter in an open field,

dressed to kill in the noonday sun.

Cautiously looking for my prey,

I search quietly through the tall grass

until I spot my target in the distance,

the perfect size and in perfect position

motionless, as if asleep, on towering vines.

I reach for my weapon, but itís not there.

My bare hands must suffice.

Slowly I sneak up on the unsuspecting victim.

With stealth-like speed I grab its body and wrestle it from its roost.

Not putting up much of a fight, the wild prize succumbs to my grip.

With sweet satisfaction in a good dayís hunt

I wander back home with my new trophy,

a young, tender, ripe

tomato