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Poetry: A Watch Dog

 

I’ll call him, a Pincher

Because I’m not sure

Of his breed, but from

His perch I am certain

Of his prominence

 

Atop the darkly varnished

Wooden cube, tucked into

The corner of the bar

An immovable object

Not unlike a miniature

 

Virgin Mary or the slightly

More provocative Vishnu,

This hollow idol may have

Been left to rest just beneath

The customer’s conscience

 

Staring across the dark café

As if he were expecting

His callous-handed maker

To return from a five decade

Holiday, but intensity concedes

 

Vulnerability, one glance past

His pointed ears, a framed mirror

Reflects the back of his head

Accentuating a collarless neck,

Although he is stroked only

 

By a distant light, he’s never

Been abused, chest and shoulders

Sleek and furless, a piggy bank

With no coins and no dreams

 

Just take a hammer to his jowls

And he won’t even wriggle

His bulbous fire-cast snout

And never would he reveal

 

His absence of tongue, wearing

A solemn expression even as

He was packed with pots and

Ashtrays in the heart of the kiln.

 

By Aaron Wiegert

Poetry: Adam InTae Gerard

Poetry: Sergio A. Ortiz