You tell too many stories, Boy,
and nobody knows what to believe
anymore. The details change
every time— shadows darker, storms
stormier, that yipping in the distance
that surely signals a kill and sends
foolish shivers up your spine.

Stuck in these stories and the transient
attention they afford to someone clearly
desperate to receive it, your allegiance
to the tales you tell throws all you have
into certain jeopardy.

But you are blind to the idea of loss,
content to prey on our emotions, gamble
loyalties and good will, toy around
with our collective sense of caring.
It is all a game to you.

Meanwhile, we know the wolf
is circling, and that is the irony,
for by then you will be fast asleep,
oblivious to the real danger you mocked,
the drama you invented as you teased us
into the countryside in our bedclothes
to rescue what did not need rescuing.

It seems no one can save you now.
Those who can have shut their windows
so they cannot hear your cries.

Claire Juno, © 2016

…inspired by the fable, “The Boy Who Cried Wolf”.