“Are they yours? Aren’t they magnificent?”
“I’ll like them better when they’re on my plate."
I winced and we walked away, commiserating.
We knew he'd say that.
They sing to their babies, you know,
in the exotic rasp of a güiro.
low, warm, rhythmical
Well, of course you are musical,
you fast-fattening beauties,
you ‘jello on springs’.
Your flat nose probed my palm,
at our first respectful greeting.
Us, overlooking your muddy snout,
you overlooking our jealous hound,
who turned her rump on her rivals,
while you rose above it. Charming.
You grow noisier at each meeting,
trailing us along the fence for a hard scratching.
The filaments of your bristles, opalite
in autumn sun. Filtered through sea-mist,
you have an Old Hollywood aura,
that George Hurrell glamour.
Your weed-patch-bed grows sparse as you balloon.
We are careful to visit you every day now.
In our sweet spot, between Negroni sun, thumbprint moon.