...Ursa Minor...
The bear could be found
just at the end of the alley.
There on the far side of a dumpster
where you’d really have had
to look to find it.
Should you have done so,
you would have found it
wedged askew,
just there at the
dumpster’s slanted base.
Its appearance rather pristine,
though it lay there adjacent
a pile of human feces.
Trust me now.
I want you to understand
that this bear wasn’t dead.
But then,
it wasn’t alive either.
Listen: It was a stuffed bear
and you just never know
whether such things are
ever truly alive.
Of course, to infer the
presence of a heart beat
does throw my inherent veracity
into question.
The alternative is to bypass heart
and simply accept that stuffed bears
are capable of conscious thought.
Listen: It’s a given,
but before we move on,
let’s establish that
a child’s teddy-bear sprawled
upon ground next to feces
is obviously unacceptable,
whereas the presence of some
adult’s stuffed animal
is that which we easily grant
a grotesque passage.
Teddy on a bed.
Teddy held to breast.
Teddy as titillation.
Teddy translucent torn.
Rivulets of mascara.
A torrent of salt;
of fault;
of assault.
Indeed here the taste
of a tear evolves.
“Is that a new shade
of eye shadow
or simply a bruise?”
That point in a relationship
when the rise of a hand
brings an automatic flinch.
“Baby. Look...
Here, I’m sorry.
I won you this bear.
Baby. Baby. I love you!”
Teddy bears come absent teeth.
This way you know that you’re safe.
And his arm makes a mighty arc,
swinging forth with all his might.
Flinging the ball at the bottles.
Flinging the ball at the bottles.
Flinging the ball at those
mother sumpin’ bottles.
And, he can’t hit shit.
Rifling through the remaining
cash in his wallet,
he catches the eye of the carny
and motions him
to the edge of the tent.
“Listen Dude.
Listen.
How much just to buy
the damn bear?”
And there... There on the
far side of some dumpster,
you’ll find one man’s
romantic ideal.
Ó2021 Jack David Hubbell
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