I.
The hands are warm
Against my cold metal
And the breath rushing
Over my gray sides
Pulls up clouds of dust.
I have not been off the
China cabinet in years.
A hand releases me and
Then comes back to caress
My barrel, the hand is wet.
I think fleetingly of rusting
But then I realize, if the
Hands do as they are planning
A little wetness will be
The least of my worries.

II.
I want to help him,
But I am afraid of guns.
I whimper and wag
My tail against my belly
Tapping it back and forth
Between my hind legs.
I want to stay in the room,
And give him company,
But there is the gun.
I'm afraid of guns, so
I slink from the room and
Find my bone for comfort.

III.
He thinks he must
Bear the load alone.
Yet, for years now I
Have held his weight
And that of his joys
And that of his troubles.
He stands on me now
His pain is making my
Joists creak as he walks
Around; his shoes scuff my
Boards as he enters a room.

IV.
I feel a finger tighten
About my trigger and
I feel my metal go cold.
I do not want to fire,
No more than skunks
Want to spray their stink.
It hurts me to shoot, a
Physical pain, like pulling
Out a tooth just to throw
It at someone or something.
I cannot help it though,
When the finger squeezes
I shoot and then feel a sense
Of weightlessness as I fall
Slowly downward.

V.
I hear the shot and I yelp.
I cram myself behind
The couch where I feel
A little bit safer and
Whimper softly wanting,
Waiting, for Master to come
And comfort me, like he
Always does when I am
Scared, but he does not.
So, I wiggle out from
Behind the couch and
Go to look for him.
He is in the room, with
The bed I am not allowed on
And his face is salty when
I lick it and the room
Smells like old, hot pennies.

VI.
I feel him hit against me,
My joists groan with the
Sudden pressure and shake.
Then the whole house sighs
With me in sadness as I feel
The dog curl up near where
My floorboards are swelling
With the man's red moisture.

05/11/2007

Posted on 05/11/2007
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