Poem on Sugar Paper

Oh whirling dervish, creature of extremes!
Will you stay still enough for me… oh dogule,
mad leaper-up, can’t you tell your oscul-
ation’s unappreciated?  Your genes
(get DOWN!) are pure leaf-brown spaniel, which means
sheer delight as I smooth each silken floccule
and stroke your forehead’s dome (please, not a globule
of warm lick, NO!) but your half-human memes
confuse us both.  If only I could dive
into these dark pools, your eyes, that reveal
none of your thoughts, although you’re so alive...
and quiet at last, curled in some ancient spell,
sharp teeth and tasselled ears primed to receive
this poem, token of love and your next meal.

Fiona Moore


If you have any comments on this poem,
Fiona Moore would be pleased to hear them.