Sunday, September 20, 2009

Lunch Poem No. 17

Raymundo thinks I should leave early.
"Who'll notice?" he husks
in his doggy-smoker tones.

He throws one of his wooly charges
the eye
and the creature retreats.

Like that.

Not a word.

"You gotta be like that," he says.
"Tell them who's boss."

He forgets we're both caged.

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