|Image by Zelko Nedic|
I've been trying to say I ain't got no dog in this fight,
and I've been telling the truth: she don't wear my collar.
But, dag, she's a big dog, and she's sitting right here,
her eyes pleading: "My name's Under," and I've always
been a sucker for that one: the kicked-around one.
Lord help me, I gotta do something with this here dog!
And I really do mean Lord help me; she's parked tween
the Tree of Life and some soldier's shoe, but I lost my
flaming sword awhile back (no fruit left on the Tree,
anyhow), and all I've got for weapon, now, is the Word.
Where you from, Girl? Whom you representing?
I don't think my struggle's against you, no matter what,
but you gotta quit tugging at my laces; I need my shoes
(I call them the preparation of the gospel of peace) tied.
I need a little time to think about this mess, and pray...
time to think about Whom I'm representing, and
how best to represent He Whom I'm representing.
Because He's love, and I want you to see Him, Dog,
in me. (Maybe you will.) Hows about, in the meantime,
you and I go buy us some square burgers? No chicken.
Where's the beef, Girl? You got the nose; lead the way.
***Sharing these thoughts, today, with poetic friends at The Mag.