Walking out Waimuri way
Goes the lost retriever.
She trots a bit, a nervous sway,
Eyes anxious, nostrils flared
In search of the deceiver.
No way to know how she got here,
No maps outside, inside fear.
She couldn’t know this place is a dot
Or two no one thinks about.
Her placement reeks of a Pacific plot.
Next week she’ll board a boat
To blow a hole in her wooden keel.
Transformed into one hundred pounds
Of bomb that barks and sounds
Like any other golden: look she floats!
Or parts of her do, blown astray.
She had no idea life would shorten
Or be abused, or cause harm
In such an evil way.
The worst she knew, back on the farm
Were cats playing hackey-sack
With mice about to be a meal,
Or Bob Dylan singing “how does it feel?”
Now she’s flotsam in the bloody sea,
One more boat down for Greenpeace.
Copyright, Doug Stuber, 1994. Unauthorized use and/or duplication of this material without express and written permission from this blog’s author and/or owner is strictly prohibited. Excerpts and links may be used, provided that full and clear credit is given, and with appropriate and specific direction to the original content.