When the mutt becomes the hybrid,
when the mess gets deemed Art,
we all stand a chance for the gold ring
over the gold-plated brass.
Though who’s to say that brass one’s
so bad? It’s the Goldendoodle
of metallic circles. One that
won’t ding like the pure auric, but
might ring a song sweeter,
to some ears.
So perhaps there’s hope for
this widening, shrinking, still
handsome in the right dimness,
projector of cracked-prism’d,
paint-spattered impressions —
images of a world captured
better by those pure-bred names,
who usually (it turns out)
are other Puggles with pencils.
Poem Number 12 on the way to 30 straight for NaPoWriMo 2016. Thought I’d write something truly silly, but it ended up being something sillily true.