Wednesday, March 21, 2018

The Return of Milkshake

When Andy lived in Hollywood,
he had a psychotic break,
he became unhinged, it seems,
it made my poor heart ache.

One day, he saw a beggar with a dog,
a cur so cute and sweet,
being suckled by her pups,
a dog with little feet.

My lad pulled out his wad of cash,
sixty bucks he did pay,
the dog he lifted to his arms,
and carried her away.

He gave her name that very morn,
and Milkshake she was named,
he loved her to the moon and back,
for this, he couldn't be blamed.

He took a cab a hundred miles
to Santa Barbara town,
and walked into a bar that day
his troubles there to drown.

He walked into a bar, I say,
and left Milkshake outside,
He tied her to an iron pole,
then she cried and cried.

A cop found Andy in the bar
and gave to him a fine,
He carted Milkshake away,
Andy was left to pine.

Andy wandered the streets dismayed,
he phoned on borrowed cell,
"Please help," he begged, "my Milkshake
is gone; my heart - a shell."

We were enroute to LAX, but turned
to try to save the day,
we found him with swollen feet,
his broken heart, a sway.

Homeless, he'd been for many a day,
without a single penny,
wandering the streets in despair,
his choices weren't many.

We fed him bread and eggs and tea,
but could not assuage his hurt,
With Milkshake gone, he was adrift
with joy, he could not flirt.

We drove him home a hundred miles
He begged us to restore,
Milkshake his love, his sole desire
to bring her to his door.

We set out a hundred miles,
Milkshake was ensconced
in the pound at Santa Barbara,
we paid the fine and bounced

back one hundred miles, we drove,
I rubbed her little ear
I cradled Milkshake in my arms,
she was so very dear.

We waited down below the stairs,
till Andy bounded down,
Seeing Milkshake, he began to shake,
Tears dropped so very round.

"Milkshake, my love, " he cried in bliss,
kissing her in delight,
he kissed her from head to toe,
hugged her with all his might.

A grown man so enamored,
I was in awe to see,
She was his Cleopatra,
he, her Anthony.

Saturday, March 17, 2018

Tiger at a Tea Party

"You can't take a tiger to a tea party,"
he told me, and indeed he had become
a tiger. "Swear that you won't tell anyone,
not even God, he told me. So I swore.

It was a wild tale, told the day after
his operation. A tale of rescue,
a tale of murder, a tale of escape.
I could almost have believed him, but no,

too outlandish. Somehow, he had become
unhinged. Maybe the anesthesia, maybe
stress of the last months, maybe genetics,
maybe some combination of all these.

Time has passed, weeks, months, years have gone by since
that day when the moon came out into the
light of day and the dazzling sun climbed into
the bed of night. And I have not been the same either.