Poem 4: Oscar

Eight pounds of ferocious,
ears perked into fleecy triangles,
tail wound into a clenched fist,
he howls at the monsters outside.

He howls at the monsters outside
as they creak and stomp through the world.
only the shrillness of his war charge
keeps his charges safe inside.

His charges safe inside,
voices low and growly,
unaware, unappreciative,
their fingers not yet crooked into combs.

Not yet crooked into combs,
but soon. Soon, they will rub soft ears,
scratch happy belly, safe, content,
and tell him what a good, good boy he is.


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