I play a game with my
beast of a dog.
I say, "Squirrell!"
and she bolts down
the perfectly landscaped
avenue of trees after
the soot colored
critter.

It's tail electrified in
the socket of fear scuttles
up the nearest tree
except this morning
it got slowed down
and my killing machine
clamped down and
before I could beat
the poor animal out
of her locked jaw,
it crumpled to the
ground broken in a
way so inhumane,
the sight of the blood
curdled my stomach
like a glass of cool milk.

None of this is true, mind.

I'm a spineless poet.
Because instead of
saying what I mean about
not being able to save you-
about all your blood-
about those merciless
and invisible jaws
of death clenched around
your throat making a
mess of all things.

One day I'll stop writing in metaphors.