To the Dogs

Imagining the president and his pup

Sam on my lap I scratch his ear

gaze into his sadly happy eyes

wonder just what I’ve done

to deserve him

he who can also be

the loud barking nuisance

startling the hell out of me

who in Vietnam

daily heard both loud

and more muffled blasts

constantly reminding me

mortality expends its time

as explosion or terrier barking.

So to the question of whether or not

our self-centered president

ever even pondered the company of

a pup he would need to kibble-feed

I only can attempt to imagine

the starved and wanting puppy

explosively reminding the Donald

about food, that one necessity

required and craved, sustenance and

attention withheld by

the president playing

golf in Scotland texting Kellyanne Conway,

“Is that greedy little mutt still around?

Feed its ass and name it anything

except Ted or Jeb Ben Mike or Marco

all losers.

And give my dog, whatever

you name it,

the blue ribbon for terrificness

such a winner!


Ed Coletti is a poet who lives with his wife, Joyce, in Santa Rosa.

Open Mic is a weekly feature in the ‘Bohemian.’ We welcome your contribution. To have your topical essay of 350 words considered for publication, write [email protected].

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