Placeholders
When I called him, he
approached with caution –
a burnt ochre offering
with a rug on
his stuck on stick twitching
like a metronome.
Keeping bad time, it must
be stated,
no musician could make
much of that six eight
less a rolling meter, more
a shaggy dog’s tale.
I wouldn’t say he had a
cocky eye
pushing a grizzled muzzle
between my thighs
but if he could talk, he might
sigh
he’s been instructed to
worry a given pronoun
like a long dead buried
bone
that calls every hole in
the ground a home -
and told not to take it
lying down
while upon his brow – that
ancient frown
which, as you might think,
determines nothing
at this time. You ask
yourself – do they do that?
Really dig them out of the
mud, drop them clagged
in dirt on the ground - with
heart’s singing glad
as around about
in lieu of a proper walk, or
the thrill of the hunt,
by sour faced or ancient
one sticked grunts.
He’s had his fill, leashed
outside the vape shop,
Waterstone’s, Boots the
Chemist, the Co-Op -
scruffy, scrawny, big, small,
box-blunt chopped
or bellies so big they’ve
dropped
beneath the legs that
struggle to hold them up –
and, listening impatiently
to the gossip
while something that
passes for an owner
has looked at life and took
him for a placeholder.
No comments:
Post a Comment