Midtown Iguana

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