Guardian of the benches

Under the crossed double socket wrenches

my golden guardian lays silent

at, or on, my pontoon feet.

Unkike Billie Collins’ barker:

he's a man who never chases,

who would guess?

He might desert me for a burger

or a Berger Picard (but not Jean-Luc)

but most of all

for red roam Gnocchi

pulling Michaela for a smooch

hump and tango on four

on the floor oblivious

to sirens singing

tourists hands

and wives’ private eyes

cameras who love him best,

high-fiving for the sweet potato

that he is

with eyes only for me.

Worms in his brows

say this:

My food is mine

as is yours

in this red bench alley.

Take no photos

when he does not punish you with silence;

Watch his roses grow

pink which exists just in your mind,

with the lies you tell yourself,

not the orange Duchess or

yellow Poet’s wife who both

speak only the truth.

No rose lies through

its thorns

and this quiet old dog has a lot more left to say,

and do.

©Philippe du Col, 2025

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