GIRAFFE

Because not all poetry should be about death, depression and sexual orientation.

Freckled lemons made

for a dog’s mouth,

a long neck and an

internal squeak

No bigger than a pop can

 

I sit on a cushioned plateau

olive green and red pirate flags,

a ship on the sea of blankets

I sail

 

Until I see the great

black and white,

terror of the wooden floors

and drafty rooms cold

as the white lighted tree

they house

 

Shark fins, two of them

pace the edge of

the precipice, a

tail flicks, a

whisker twitches

 

If I had organs and nerves

I would flee

But I sit, awkward-eyed

and fuzzy,

waiting.

 

It recedes, to the couch

for a more comfortable

napping spot

 

Today I am safe.