Poetry by Paul Maxim

It spews smoke -
and craps on the grass...
Is it a dragon?
No, only Claire and her dog,
whose morning strolls maculate
curbside and vacant lot
with sedimentations
that might embarrass an organic garden.

They move always in a tight circle
round the house as hub,
as though it held them on leash,
puffing and sniffing -
the fixed point of an imaginary compass,
one leg up.

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