I see his arid black eyes stare over his
panting snout as he warmly rings the bell.
The door opens. He stands there, inquisitive head
cocked to one side, perhaps asking this two
legged butler where his date is. They were
supposed to have a romantic evening
tonight, remember? Yet, expressionless,
the door resounds in his face. Maybe it
~
was because he didn’t shower today
or piss in the right place or his eau de cologne
wasn’t on just right. He was just leaving
anyways. As for me, I watch his ego
~
of spit and matted fur trot down the hot
street. Poor guy, his suit was ripped all along.
~
This sonnet is copyright 2010 of Jessica Anne McLean. All rights reserved.
The Rose 
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