Wednesday, August 29, 2007

Poem #241 of 365

I shout big with my eyes
as I watch the pastor
count his plate and
the town go to the
dogs when the dogs
don't even want it.

Don't even want it,
the money, the
grandeur, the glamour,
the steadied hands
clipping his doghood
and his coat.

I genuflect with my
thumbed nose as
I see the headlines
tattoo cynicism
onto the belief
system of a
21st humanity

wrought with centuries of betrayal,
befuddlement, sloppy seconds,
and a soap opera trailer
for a life history.

One day that species,
the one of the dog,
will evolve to a stature
so it can know to
invest its inheritance
well, and leave the old
bones, old saws,
properly buried in
a time capsule of
dark denial.

(on the second anniversary of the Katrina disaster)

copyright 2007 tammy melody gomez

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