shot glass
"... brevity is the soul of wit ..."
- William Shakespeare

Brett Warren

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Feral Muse

He sits ill-tempered in a slash of sun
that angles the driveway, or reclines, defiant,
on the trailer's steely wishbone. At dusk
he scales the fence to lurk beneath shrubs

when I'm out with the dog, as if he knows
she's gone deaf, blind—he can gloat at last.
One night I looked out at the first falling snow,
saw his surly shape glaring at the screen door.

His fur was as dull as he was sour, his ratty coat
the color of damp dirt. I thought I could let him
onto the porch, if not out of the cold. But
he flattened and hissed as I opened the latch,

and looked back with contempt as he slunk away,
an unfinished poem in his mouth.