with the care of a sunflower face or safety pin
ravens all aboard
gaze at the sun
much the way
window panes shatter
an empty building succumbs
to a thunderstorm
teardrops scatter, inappropriately
as brian wilson
belts out his song
agile, fast, heartbroken
does she navigate
the chamomile clinging
at her sides
with the care
that could only be exhibited
in fastening a safety pin
onto his lapel
Once there was a man named Pollywog Sinclair.
He would hold his Boston Terrier close to his chest.
As if there were a cross for a landing strip where the dog’s back had to be adhered
With masking tape.
Those dogs were made to beat eachother
Bat at eachother, their shivering, oinking, farting selves
in the depths of boston amongst
Deceased lobsters, other crustaceans.
Briny as it was.
Mr. Pollywog Sinclair rescued the dog from an orange juice factory.
The dog would never have scurvy.
But his hairs would get into the orange juice cartons and that wasn’t good.
Pollywog Sinclair would wear a vest over his chest to conceal his belly and
Pear-shaped body. He was awfully soft looking for a man. He had “birthing hips.”