The bristles on the collar stiffen
As the collective hum of the universe
Settles between the blades of its sculpted shoulders
Suspended like icicles, the prickly spikes
Hang upside down above the barrel – like blind bats-
Fascinated by the possibility of a promise
Made at a witching hour
From every account, the bathwater is filthy
Yet, the baby is cleaner than ever
And, the yellow roses that were delivered
Remain frozen, anticipating a beautiful dream
That was once sold under your sheets
Your spindly arms creep – like a warm poncho-
Around its treasure chest
Trying to muffle its breath
But, when it finally stretches its pink tongue
To find the right words
All you hear is a cry – a sigh of definite relief-
Loud enough punch a hole through the gut
But, some say it speaks in a voice
So achingly beautiful, that it makes
The bristles on your collar stiffen…

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