by D.A. Lockhart
Little registers before
the east-bound departure
of a Tempo,
stuffed Iguana
perched
in rear window, looking
at the world hungry.
The driver, too-tightly collared
shirt, three-day bender scruff
and cigarette pointed
outward
between two
well-positioned
hands on the wheel.
Hardly seen hair,
him not seeing
beyond the direction of the car.
And that Iguana,
one time pet,
sure fire thrift-store find,
heirloom,
stares boldly
into midday sun,
posture frozen in stride.
Proclaims in bow-
legged sternness
creation needs
to be told
one can be
strong
and
eternally
famished.
— from Juniper Volume 3, Issue 3