No charmer, you’ve
a pushed in face,
and blackened jowls
that always drool.
You’ve eyes of cue balls
rolling left and right.
White and tan, your body
seems fat when it is not.
It’s a swollen muscle
that somehow grew four legs.
Your tail is coiled
and hardly there
causing you concern, and so
you go spinning on your bum.
You tantrum without reason
anyone can fathom
and like North Korea,
you refuse to budge,
play nice with others,
or take a little walk.
Feet planted,
you become
a blacksmith’s anvil
nobody can move.
You sound like the oldest of old men,
a cough, a wheeze, a groan,
and as if an outsized cat
you snore a monster’s purr.
You will not chase a ball
but you will clamp
your jaws on it, insisting
someone try to claim it
from between
two rows of teeth.
Eleanor. Ellie. Rigby-roo.
You’re every bulldog; each bulldog’s you,
strangely shaped and stubborn
and only ever doing what you choose to do.
Strangely shaped and stubborn,
we love the you that’s you.
wlw
April 24, 2017
(This was yesterday’s effort for Poetic Asides’ PAD Challenge (a poem a day through April).)
