GOD, DOG AND TEDDY ~ rough draft
by April Halprin Wayland
God came by early this morning on his rounds,
carrying his latte.
He saw you sleeping on your blanket.
He saw Teddy.
Then he saw what you’d done to Teddy.
He couldn’t believe you’d do that, Dog.
He took a big, mad, gulp from his golden mug
and jumped, spilling espresso and foam down his white robe.
“Damn! I burned my tongue!” he said.
He stalked outside.
He stomped round and round
on the frosty lawn.
I don’t know if it was the cold air,
the latte, or just being God, you know,
but there was steam coming from the top of his head.
Why did you bite off Teddy’s leg, Dog?
God brought you Teddy
all the way from the Alameda swap meet last summer.
After awhile, He came back in.
He let out a big breath,
picked up Teddy and put her gently in his pocket.
I think he was singing the Beatle’s
“We Can Work it Out”
as he walked down the street.
I know it was God, Dog,
because it was 6 am
and he was very careful not to wake you up.
=================================
I am indulging myself with this one.
Eli has adored one particular stuffed animal since I picked her out at the swap meet in August. This one was in a special, protected class. She was saved while other, lesser animals were sacrificed. Suddenly, though, Eli turned on her and off came her leg. Now her insides have spilled all over our bedroom carpet. It made me very sad.
Bruce says:
“Liked this poem and the back story.
It’s a strange bizarre kind of poem and that makes me like it.
It does need some tightening up.”
Who, me?