Surveying the landscape, it sat tall on its throne
ruling the land ofCabinet,
in the country of Kitchen.
Its soup-can subjects marveledat
the perfection of its circular silver shape.
The white of its sidesbellowed the word
"Bumblebee"
in bold red letters.
Friend tothe dolphins, its contents
Swam in clear liquid that sent her
Running-
Her toenails clacking against the
off-white linoleum of the laundry roomfloor;
her coarse tail thumping against the
walls, chairs and washingmachine that stood in her way.
Her jangling collar - the name"Sabra" inscribed in bold red letters -
royally proclaimed herarrival.
Her ears would perk at the wailing of the can opener,
poised atthe tip of a can, like a demented 18th-century French guillotine.
Itspredecessors sacrificed their lives
to that silver metal and off-white plasticcan opener.
For her.
I would pry off their
craggy lids, drain theircontents and give the empty carcass to her.
She would wash their wounds withher
long cactus-like tongue,
feasting upon the remains.
Emerging with asnow bank of tuna fish on her snout,
she would tilt her oblong furry head tothe side,
anticipating the inevitable bite of my tuna fish sandwich.
Buttoday the can lies alone - suffering.
On the floor.
The long silver needlereplaced
the silver-topped solid white albacore tuna fish can.
She sleepsnow.