Jepatio Street, 27

There are rumors that our grey dog died
But I like to think
He ran off to the circus

And prances these days
A crown of feathers
On his speckled head,
Dancing the merengue
With pink-tinted poodles,
Sailing the trapeze,
Leaping through rings of fire.

And just when Jepatio Street
Is nearly forgotten,
He thinks he sees us in the crowd.
His footfall gets all butter-fingered,
Glitter falls from his go-go boots
Where he turns cheetah-like on a dime
And looks to the faces of strangers
But can never find the laughter of home,
Or hands that felt just right on his face,
Or the soft voices
That made the night feel safe.

There are rumors that our grey dog has died,
But I don't believe it's true.
I believe he runs with the tigers
And is coming home soon.

2005 Underground Voices