your dog could have been run over that day
by the heat wave that was threatening the gloom
and maybe she could be
contemplating last night’s supper
and his face stained in her memory
she was contemplating
putting it to an end,
all over and done with.

she’s choking,
as lightening thunders to be
the special middle child
he’s the one with the napoleon complex
you saw him with flame throwers
setting the acre of macintosh apples on fire
and you lost the house
but the boys still got their christmas presents
wrapped up in a nice tidy bow
(they gave them what they really wanted)
and they never seemed to grow up
they stood by the porch
begging for food with their wives at their side
lapping up milk like cats from the saucer
lazy but doubtful,
easfully resting in the garden
still giving grandmother
the share of what she wanted
even though she was dying

Copyright 2015 Golden Star Poetry


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