A Shar Pei named Blue
China's royal lap dog lapping dew
in the Half-Native backyards of Carrollton.
Blue, as she might have been collared,
was ratty like the tattered scraps of tomato vines,
shriveling under the habanero drought.
It took all the dew from Blue
and soon that Chinese lap dog curled
like a grain of jasmine rice.
Holly-baby, don't cry for Blue--
all brown and puffy like squished hamster cheeks.
You're a Taurus. Grab that bull
by the horns and drag that sack
through the Californian woods.
Wait until the lushes surround you
and the pines bury you in scented branches
until the leaves blend into the soft silks
of Indian sari, and that blue rice grain becomes Poha
blended in savory breakfast spices.
Bury burdens and drown its trunks in hops
and as the floral scent surrounds you,
Holly-baby let the gardens of dishonesty grow
uncultivated in the realms of relativity.
Dishonesty is relative, after all.
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