Little Red Riding Hood

What could a wolf want with
Little Red Riding Hood?
She was just going to
Grandmother's house,
taking a basket of
heterogeneous
cheeses and wine and a
fine ruffled grouse.

Granny, a doddering
octogenarian,
lived in the forest a
long way from town,
prone to the vapors and
inhospitality,
nursing her cats and a
permanent frown.

Wolves we imagine as
threats to be reckoned with,
much more minacious than
commonplace churls,
utterly ruthless and
naturalistically
given to feasting on
innocent girls.

Why then would Riding Hood
being approached by a
slavering wolf with his
eyes on her goods—
why would she tell him so
unnecessarily
where she was going that
day in the woods?

Needless to say, he ar-
rived there before her and
gobbled up granny and
hungered for more.
Fancying Riding Hood's
palatability,
he heard a tentative
knock at the door.

"Won't you come in? I've been
anxious for you, for the
wolf is about, and he
quickens my fear."
Can't she see anything
physiognomically
odd about Granny? "Come
nearer, my dear."

Riding Hood takes a step
closer, and horror! the
look in those eyes, and the
size of those teeth!
Then it's too late, and she's
paradigmatically
in the wolf's belly, with
granny beneath.

Wait! They're delivered! The
wolf was incised by some
hunter or woodsman who
just happened by.
Would that such provident
instrumentality
came to our rescue when
things go awry.

© Jan Hodge