The name our
friend has chosen
for her mastiff
is sublime.
We wait to hear
the inevitable:
Achilles, heel!
Almost invulnerable,
were it not
for a patch near his
paw;
able to sniff
out a cad,
any boorish
lout
who makes a pass.
We envision
a vivid
scenario,
picture him
by her side,
at the Apollo’s
Pharmacy,
a box of Trojan
love balloons
snuck discreetly
in her purse,
the one she got
on Etsy,
made with
vintage
‘80s horse hair,
as if some
stealthy turnabout,
hoping a heroic,
Grecian Spartan
will ascend
from The Illiad,
the copy she keeps
by the fire,
beside a dog-
eared Ancient Myths,
with two
glasses of
Muscat Blanc,
one for her,
and one for a
woman’s best friend,
beside her with
his vicious mouth
agape, a cave of tongue
and teeth,
ready to bite
on his arrival,
sit back down
if she commands;
lick the spot
below his calf
as if to pity his
single weakness.
Andreas Gripp
February 3, 2024
RF Image