though in the beginning he was partial to camels,
and tried his lot at that, single-humped Bactrian,
and twice-humped dromedary, only to fail at both.
Dromedaries proved nastiest. They’d spit.
With great accuracy and foulness. At him.
Were fiercely unloyal. Had no decorum, especially
when it came to table manners. In general, stank
in such a way that the servants and the wallpaper
all gave notice and left the same day. No way
could he ever imagine threading one thru a needle.
He tried his hand at llamas. A cousin of camels.
Allegedly domesticated. He nurtured this delusion
for a week or so, fueled with the vodka of indecision
and a chaser of blindingly prophetic migraines.
He was immune to their long eyelashes, and provocative
eyes. Smug they might be, but smart and friendly
outweighed the spit they aimed at others. Not him.
He finds their humming a meditative mantra.
Something even he can repeat without stumbling
tongue and teeth-first into stupidity.
It’s not the spittin’, it’s the spit on. (We welcome Richard to our crazy congress of Contributing Poets with this submission. Read more of his madness on his new page – check it out.) – mh clay