my Twombly, after Cy
Expatriate American expressionist
Named for lyrical marks reminiscent
of the puppy’s brindle coat pigment
American Stafford shire terrier, a sweet, sweet perfectionist
At six weeks, he could live in
my inside jacket pocket.
He grew up with an evil sister, in confinement.
Huge wide jaws, but would never bite.
Could climb a tree
to eight feet in height.
Although, once badly fallen,
One hip would atrophy.
A jar head bull dog, with a wasp waist, an awesome sight.
With one tooth missing top right.
He would clear twenty-sixth street, even at night.
Some would put doors between us, out of fright.
Swimming with head craned high, tunnel vision down, diving deep
under water with salted eyes held wide, a horse-shoe crab’s nightmare.
Movement Should they dare?
His lust for their caviar, pulling off one leg at a time, dining.
An uncanny ability to carry ten foot long cedar logs
in his jaws, dead center and navigate,
Enter
A pit bull princess, a permanent pair
For almost sixteen years, a bull necked father of ten , that I know.
With the birth of my first
Never a doubt of his trust.
Ever on guard of him, without concern for personal hunger or thirst.
He convinced me forever that his presence is a must.
My relationship with this guy is without time
His teachings of acceptance of me occurred every day , somehow sublime.
How can I equate his love of Now, without concern of my past or future.
With cataracts growing
No microscope to see the love as in some bacterial culture.
The passion for life he had will always keep me knowing:
That I am going,
the right way to the BEACH!
As his hips went and he turned white
as if by bleach.
His yelps of pain and the coughing.
Somehow bring me back to his physical might
With Maguire I recall a classic fight,
with a two hundred pound Great Dane, one night.
Can anyone show
me
The beauty of his sweetness
without agenda.
I am forever WE.
